


King's Gambit

by erebones



Series: King's Gambit Verse [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Coming Out, Corporate bullshit, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homosexuality, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Political Campaigns, Press and Tabloids, Queer Themes, Repression, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Male Character, as if i know anything about that, background ferdibert, background hildanne, rich people bullshit, which i do know a little about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: “University aside,” Lysithea says, “you have a lot going for you right now. You’re rich and mildly famous, you’re generous with your money without being frivolous, you’re philanthropic. And you’re not half bad to look at, either,” she says with a wink. Lorenz wrinkles his nose in tacit disagreement. “All you really need to tie it all together is…”“A boyfriend,” Hilda jumps in triumphantly.For a heartbeat or two, it’s so perfectly silent that Claude swears he could hear a pin drop. Then Lorenz breaks it with a startled cough.“I… beg your pardon?”//In a modern Fódlan, Lorenz is outed to his father and decides to take control of his fate by going public. The best way to do that? Pretending to date his best friend, of course, who just happens to be in the midst of a media frenzy of his own as he pursues political success in his grandfather's footsteps at the Alliance Roundtable elections.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a minute since I've done a proper politically-infused modern AU, so why not try it and make it claurenz? I'm making up the whack political structure of a modern Fódlan as I go, so please handwave weirdnesses... it's just a backdrop for the ROMANCE. I'm hoping to update once a week, but this fic is sort of falling out of me, so there may be early updates sometimes. 
> 
> King's gambit is a move in chess in which white offers a pawn to divert the black pawn. Thank you to the folks on twitter who helped me land on a title! <3

><><

**GLOUCESTER HEIR COMES OUT!**

**L. H. GLOUCESTER, SET TO INHERIT MULTIBILLION DOLLAR CORPORATION, SHOCKS NATION WITH SEXUAL IDENTITY CRISIS**

**RIEGAN CAMPAIGN ROCKED BY GLOUCESTER SCANDAL**

Claude shuts the paper with a _snap_ and tosses it onto the seat beside him. Poised on the far side of the car, one leg crossed neatly over the other and bubblegum-pink manicure tapping at her phone, Hilda does not react.

“I can’t believe he did it.”

Hilda _hmms_, noncommittal.

“I can’t believe he _actually_—” His voice, fried with sleeplessness and shock, careens somewhere into second soprano territory. Claude clears his throat and fishes his phone out of his pocket with a curse. When he unlocks it, the text he’d received earlier that day still glares at him from the screen.

> **I may have just done something incredibly stupid. Forgive me. **

The text is unsigned—unusual for Lorenz, who rarely misses an opportunity to remind people of his name. Even those he considers close friends. At least, Claude _thought_ they were friends. Now he isn’t so sure.

“The tabloids are going crazy,” he says when Hilda offers no consolation. “What was he _thinking?_”

“You need to take a deep breath, Claude.” Dragged at last from whatever scathing email she’s typing up, Hilda puts her phone in her lap and turns to face him more fully. “It’s actually kind of brilliant.”

“_Brilliant?_ He said it himself, it’s incredibly stupid—”

“And when have you ever taken Lorenz at his word?” she retorts. That shuts him up. _Okay, point_. “He’s a smart guy, Claude. _Almost_ as smart as you. Do you know where his father is right now?”

“Seething himself to death in his glass coffin of an office, I would imagine.”

“Not quite. He’s on a plane from Dagda, returning home from a business trip. Don’t give me that look; it was highly publicized, it’s not like I’m hacking any international code.” She flips a strand of bright pink hair over her shoulder and he gets a pop of cotton candy and freesia from her perfume. “My point is, he’s in the air, currently unreachable by journalists or any of his own people. Everyone’s scrambling to get a statement, but they won’t find one—not for a few more hours, anyway. Lorenz has some breathing room to figure out his next steps.”

“Doesn’t feel like breathing room to me,” Claude mutters. He throws himself back in his seat and stares moodily out the window. On the other side of the privacy glass, their driver ignores his histrionics and merges onto the freeway.

“That’s because you’re panicking.” Hilda raises a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “Honestly, Claude, I don’t know why you’re so upset. It’s not like he confessed to being a… a serial puppy kicker, or something.”

“Yeah, no. Something worse, in the eyes of the media circuit.” Claude pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the oncoming headache.

They drive in silence for a few more minutes—silent but for the _tap-tap-tapping_ of Hilda’s fingernails on her phone screen. But that’s almost a soothing lullaby, to Claude’s mind. Outside, the open freeway becomes tight-fisted traffic, practically bumper to bumper at this time of day; but Raphael knows the city like the back of his hand, and he maneuvers the sturdy black SUV expertly through downtown.

“Are you upset because he didn’t tell you first?” Hilda ventures at last, gently.

Of course Hilda would get right to the heart of the matter. “No,” he lies, petulant. He sighs as the car slows and turns into a private parking garage. “I just. I wish that things were different. That he didn’t have to…”

He can’t finish. The tabloids he’d picked up on the way over glare up at him from the middle seat, garish and accusatory.

“Did you phone Lys?” he asks instead as the car comes to a stop.

“Obviously.”

Claude bounces out, phone silent in his hand, as Raphael rounds the car to open the door for Hilda. He hears her stilettos tapping on concrete and then she’s slipping an arm through his, forcibly weighing down the nervous energy that courses through him like an extra shot of espresso in his midnight coffee.

“Come on, silly.” She gives his arm a squeeze. “Let’s go rescue the damsel in distress.”

><

Lorenz is on the phone when they arrive. Claude can hear him as they step out of the elevator into the Gloucester heir’s penthouse apartment. A twenty-first birthday gift from daddy. Claude tries to remember whether the deed is in Lorenz’s name or his father’s. His eyes catch on a sculpture sitting on an elegant black end table in the entryway. _Bet that would go for a lot._

“Claude.” Hilda’s elbow is sharp and merciless. “Stop pricing his valuables and _go to him_.”

She’s already lifting her phone to her ear. No doubt contacting Lysithea. Claude drops his jacket over the statue and strides into the main room.

The penthouse is at the top of one of Derdriu’s premier apartment buildings, a skyscraper that rivals its corporate neighbors for size. From the elevator he can see right through the main room to the southwest-facing windows that look over the ocean—a few miles away, but at this height it hardly matters. The sun is setting, spilling its reddish-orange light into the water like blood poured from a bowl. Evening already.

Claude bypasses the sunken sitting area in the middle of the room and makes a beeline for the sound of his friend’s voice. Lorenz usually prefers to work in his actual office at Gloucester Tech, insisting it’s better for morale and _interpersonal development_, so his home office doesn’t get much use. It’s shunted off to one side between a guest bathroom and a small gym, and if it weren’t for the sound of his voice Claude probably would have forgotten where it was. Not that there’s many places to hide in the open-plan apartment.

“...coming over, they’ll be here any minute. We’ll figure something out,” Lorenz is saying as Claude materializes in the doorway. His tall, pale friend is even paler than usual, still dressed to the nines from the ribbon-cutting ceremony and interview he’d done earlier that day. The interview where everything went to absolute shit. His eyes lift to Claude’s and he slumps with relief back into his desk chair, hand raised in greeting. “In fact, he’s here now. Thank you for your kind words, Ferdinand.”

Ah. Of course. Only Lorenz Hellman Gloucester would have the balls—and the connections—to be able to call up the _Prime Minister_ of fucking _Adrestia_ on a whim for a chat.

A few more pleasantries are exchanged and Lorenz hangs up the phone. He looks at Claude across the desk, tense as a live wire.

“Well.” Lorenz swallows. He looks bloody terrified, and he looks like he’s pretending very hard that he _isn’t_. “Let’s have it.”

“Let’s have what?”

Claude pushes away from the doorframe and walks in, bypassing the two chairs positioned at the desk for visitors, to sit one ass cheek on the desk itself. Lorenz does not look away. “If you’re expecting to be scolded, I have bad news: that’s not what I’m here for.”

“What an unexpected kindness,” Lorenz murmurs.

Not so much as a _hint_ of sarcasm. Claude thinks of the few headlines he’d been able to catch in the car ride over and bites back a wince. “Did you really think I was going to come in here and chew your head off?”

“It’s no less than I deserve.”

“Yeah, no. That’s Count Fuck-off talking.” Lorenz pales a bit further. Hm. Maybe it's better not mention his father just yet. “Listen. You’re your own man, Lorenz. You’ve donated an exceedingly generous amount of money to the campaign, but that hardly puts you on my leash.”

“The papers said… your campaign…”

“What, that it’s in shambles because a major donor outed himself on live television? Please. The tabloids are full of utter rubbish all the time. We’re _fine_. Hilda’s been doing damage control since the news dropped, and she’s the best of the best.” Claude slides off the desk and comes around to put a hand on Lorenz’s shoulder. Lorenz flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “C’mere.”

“Come… where?”

“_Here_. Stand up, you bloody great giraffe.”

Lorenz snorts, the barest touch of a smile on his face. _There we go_. With stuffy little motions, he stands up out of the chair and goes stiff with surprise as Claude pulls him immediately into a hug.

“Hey. I’m proud of you,” Claude says into his shoulder. Beneath the vaguely chemical aroma of fresh-pressed suit, Lorenz smells like faded cologne and his favorite lavender aftershave. A Christmas gift from Hilda. _Excellent taste, that woman. _

“You… are?”

“Of course I am. That took a lot of fucking courage.”

Hesitantly, Lorenz’s arms come up to embrace him in return. “You aren’t upset that I never… said anything to you, before?”

He _is_ upset, a bit, not that he would breathe a word of it to Lorenz right now. But underneath that is disappointment with _himself._ Claude considers himself the sort of person his friends can confide in, but this fiasco has proved him wrong. He’s not sure yet what to do about it.

“Not a whit,” he says before the silence grows too long. And in that moment, he means it utterly.

They hold the embrace a little longer before parting. Lorenz had been shaking slightly in his grip, but when Claude eases back, his face is dry and impassive. “It was… not an entirely uncalculated decision.”

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me.” Claude jerks his head toward the main room. “Wanna have a drink and talk about it?”

“I… yes, that would be good.” He trails Claude out of the office, a lost puppy in his own home. “Is Hilda here?”

Claude jerks his chin toward the elevator. Hilda is still on the phone, speaking in hushed tones, but she spares them a wiggle of her fingers before turning away. “Talking to Lys, I think. She’s on her way,” he adds before Lorenz can ask. He pulls out one of the island stools in the spiffy but hardly-used kitchen and pats the seat. “Pop a squat, Gloucester. I’m bartending tonight.”

Lorenz huffs a weak laugh but does as directed, finally plucking at his tie and collar with trembling hands. “And what are you serving, Mr. von Riegan?”

“Whatever you’re in the mood for.” Claude opens the liquor cabinet, leaving finger smudges on the pristine glass—the cleaning staff is _very_ good—and pulls out a bottle of Fraldarius Reserve. “What’ll it be? Frank advice on the rocks? Some good ol’ southern comfort, neat?” He plucks two cut-crystal glasses from the cupboard and pours a healthy amount into each. “Or I can offer tonight’s special: a listening ear, half-price. Only for you.”

By the time he turns around and slides one glass to Lorenz across the marble countertop, his friend is smiling. Exhausted, but smiling, tie draped across his shoulders and suit jacket hanging off the back of his stool. He takes a sip of liquor, holds on his tongue a moment before swallowing. “What are you charging?”

“This, of course.” Claude wriggles his own quarter-full glass for emphasis. He hops up on the stool next to Lorenz and knocks back the whole thing in one go. “Ahhhhh.” _Fuck, that burns. _

“Felix would hit you for that,” Lorenz murmurs reproachfully.

“Felix doesn’t have to know.” Another few fingers of scotch go into the glass, this time for nursing. Claude nudges Lorenz’s foot with his own. “Made up your mind yet?”

“I think… perhaps the last. And a dabble of _southern comfort_ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“You got it, chief.”

The layered click of heels on hardwood draw his ear, and then Hilda is swanning into view, Lysithea on her arm. Claude hadn’t even heard the elevator come up—he must have really been preoccupied.

“Sorry I’m late,” Lysithea says, a little breathless. She tucks a few flyaways back into her elegant French knot and hops up onto the stool Hilda pulls out for her, on the other side of the island. Her eyes light up at the sight of the scotch. “Ooh! Fraldarius Reserve? That’s the good stuff.”

“Please, allow me to fetch—”

“I’ve got it,” Claude says quickly. “Bartender, remember?”

Lorenz makes some muted noises about being the host, and is summarily ignored.

“All right.” Lysithea pulls her laptop out of her frankly enormous purse and pauses with her fingers resting on the closed lid. “Before I say anything else: Lorenz, I’m proud of you.”

Lorenz’s breath catches in his throat. Claude focuses on the scotch pouring into the glass instead of the way his friend’s hands go white-knuckled in his lap, hidden from the girls by the countertop’s granite edge.

“Thank you, Lysithea. That is exceedingly generous of you, considering how much work I’ve just put on the three of you.”

“Please.” Lysithea waves a delicate hand and opens her laptop. “This is what I _do_, Lorenz. And I was always fond of a challenge.” She shoots him a look, stern but fond. “This is certainly _that_.”

“Yes, quite,” Lorenz says weakly. “I apologize—”

“Lorenz, I'm going to stop you right there. If there’s one thing I won’t have from you, it’s _apologies_.” Unlike Hilda, Lysithea’s typing habits are nearly silent—her fingers fly across the keys without a sound as Claude slides her a generous glassful of scotch. “Thank you, Claude.”

“Hilda?” He wiggles the bottle at her. “Can I tempt you?”

“Frequently, but not today.” Hilda leans her folded arms against the table, phone abandoned for the moment. “Lys, you’re stalling.”

“I want to make sure I have all the pertinent details at hand,” Lysithea returns smartly. “And while I do that, Lorenz, why don’t you fill us in.”

“On…?”

“Everything. Anything. I need to know as many dirty details as you can give me if we’re to spin this in your favor.”

“Is that even possible, at this point?” Lorenz wonders weakly, but he takes a sip of scotch and seems to gather himself. “Right. So. Today was the groundbreaking ceremony of a new research facility at Derdriu Tech, funded almost completely by my father. As you know, he’s returning from a business trip and was unable to make it personally, so he requested I attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony in his stead.” Lorenz takes a deep breath. “Actually. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”

“There’s a beginning before _that_?” Claude asks.

_Clink_. Lorenz sets his glass down and rests his fist on the marble counter. It’s shaking slightly. “Yes. Last week, there was. An incident.”

The three of them go still. Even Lysithea takes her fingers off the keys as they exchange looks.

“An incident?” Hilda echoes. Her hand inches toward her phone. “What kind of incident?”

“With my father. I was… there was an indiscretion, right before he left. I.” Lorenz blows out a breath and stands, swaying. For a second Claude thinks he’s going to pass out, but he stands firm and merely begins pacing, from one side of the kitchen to the other, twisting and twisting the signet ring on his right hand as if he’s trying to unscrew it from his finger. “I was seen attending a, a gay club. In the company of. A gentleman.”

Claude can feel his eyebrows marching up toward his hairline, and forcibly brings them back down. _Calm. Easy. Let him tell it in his own time. _The girls are clearly vibrating with unspoken questions as much as Claude is, but they're quiet. Thank goodness for that.

“It was… an elite sort of place,” Lorenz continues, ignorant of his friends’ painful curiosity. “I thought I would be safe, but someone, I don’t know who, snapped a few pictures and sent them to my father. He called me to his office the next day and delivered a… talking-to.”

It’s Claude’s turn to set down his glass, or risk breaking it. He wipes his hands on his trousers and finally breaks the silence with a gentle touch to Lorenz’s lower back. “Are you all right?”

Lorenz turns a tired smile on him. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking. My father isn’t the type to… get physical.”

A relief, but even so. Claude knows intimately how violent men can become when their masculinity—or their legacy—is challenged so abruptly.

“I won’t get into the details,” Lorenz continues, not straying from the touch of Claude’s hand, “but he essentially told me to keep my… my preferences to myself, and that if any sort of _indiscretion_ reached the public sphere, he would. _Take appropriate measures_.”

He’s clearly quoting his father, but the way his voice forms brittle around the words makes Claude want to break something. Preferably Gloucester’s ugly fucking mug. But that would be ill-advised, so instead he moves his hand to Lorenz’s shoulder and squeezes, hard.

“Did he give any indication what those measures might be?” Lysithea asks gently.

“Work-related, I believe, for starters. He didn’t _say_ the word ‘disown’ out loud, but with the look on his face I wouldn’t put it past him.” He leans briefly into Claude’s touch and then drifts away like a ship come unmoored, hoving toward the open sea—or in this case, scotch. Another sip and he settles a bit more, cracking his neck from side to side. “His final words to me were something to the effect of ‘getting the situation straightened out’ once he returned from Dagda.”

Claude grinds his teeth at the turn of phrase. “So you decided to get the jump on him.”

“Precisely.” Lorenz swirls his glass and stares into its amber depths without really seeing. “Returning to the issue at hand. Today was… a bit of a perfect storm. I don’t know if any of you saw media coverage of the event, but there was a protest at the ceremony.”

“A _protest_?” Hilda echoes. “Against what, the building? Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

“Some of the students organized a rally just outside the perimeter, protesting the building’s construction. They are critical—rightfully so—of my father’s, shall we say, _outdated_ views, and how that reflects on the university.”

“Lorenz,” Lysithea sighs, “I love you, but you’re going to have to be a little more specific. I had caught wind of the rally, but I want to make sure I get the details right.”

Lorenz makes a face at his scotch. “Right, sorry. About a hundred students, headed up by the university’s queer advocacy group, were protesting Derdriu taking my father’s money. I won’t repeat every chant I heard over the course of that hour, but the general gist was that they didn’t want their school to be associated with a man who voted against equal marriage rights at the Roundtable ten years ago, and who hasn’t been exactly forward-thinking since then.”

“So what happened, then? At the interview?” Claude asks, suddenly anxious to get to the heart of the story. “I saw the broadcast, but—”

“They asked me about it, of course. Wanted to know whether I intended to follow in my father’s footsteps, politically.” Lorenz rubs his forehead. “My financial support of _you_ is hardly a secret, Claude, but considering the noise caused by the protesters I think they wanted something a little more… concrete. So I said. I.”

“You came out,” Lysithea finishes for him, eyes back to her computer screen. There’s a tiny quirk to her mouth that speaks of displeasure, but apart from that she’s all business. “I think we’ve all seen the news clip by now.”

Claude nods along with Hilda. He’d watched it three times on his phone before it really sank in. He can still see it in his mind’s eye, flickering like a bad VHS tape. Lorenz in his beautifully tailored suit, so purple it was nearly black, listening politely to the interviewer’s rather convoluted question about his father’s politics, and his own. The slight twitch in his cheek before he answered. The sound of his voice, like it belonged to a different person, cool and composed but with the slightest weight of strain beneath it that Claude could pick out of a crowd a mile away.

_Well, considering I’m gay myself, I can definitely promise I will not be continuing my father’s political legacy in **all** arenas. _

The poor interviewer had scarcely known what to do with herself.

“Lorenz,” Lysithea says suddenly, not taking her eyes from her screen. “Do you have the picture that was delivered to your father? From the club?”

“I… yes.” With his mouth drawn into a sour pinch, Lorenz pulls his phone out of his pocket. Even at a slight distance, Claude can tell he’s drowning in notifications from a thousand different directions. He thumbs past them all without blinking and slides it face-up across the counter. On instinct, all three of them bend forward to look.

The image is blurry and dark, typical of the inside of a club, but Lorenz cuts a distinctive figure, even dressed as casually as Claude has ever seen him: a light-colored buttondown with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, black jeans that hug his slim legs. His hair is loose, distinctive, turned ultraviolet by the dance floor. The glaring lights behind him blur the details, but he’s leaning close to someone—a man slightly shorter than he is. Dark hair slicked back. Facing away from the camera. Claude’s chest jolts for some reason, and he realizes it’s because the man, whoever he is, could almost be mistaken for himself.

Lysithea flicks through a couple shots at Lorenz’s direction, and there are more of the same. They look cozy. Intimate. Claude burns under his collar. He feels like a voyeur, and yet Lorenz is standing _right there_, watching them go through snapshots of a private moment. A drop in the bucket compared to the media frenzy that’s still being unleashed, but still.

The last photo is difficult to make out, what with the crush of bodies on the dance floor, but it’s clear that Lorenz and his _friend_ have moved on from chatting and are getting down to sucking face. Claude clears his throat and looks away.

“That’s all of them,” Lorenz says stiffly, pocketing the phone as soon as Lysithea gives it back to him. His face is redder than a tomato. “Father sent them to me in a zipped file the next morning with his invitation to my office.”

“Goddess,” Hilda mutters. Silently, Claude agrees.

“He’s paid them off, whoever took the photos.” Lorenz doesn’t sound as if that’s a comfort to him. “But they’re still out there. They could drop at any moment, now that I’ve… said my piece.”

“All the better to move quickly, then. We can use those.” Lysithea’s typing has renewed in ferocity, and there’s a distinct glow to the look she shares with Hilda. “Hil, wanna fill them in?”

“We already sketched out the basics,” Hilda says, leaning forward on the counter. “It’s going to be a bit of a long con, but I think you’ll be up for it.”

Claude raises his hands in self-defense. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Because the plan involves _you_, hotshot. If you both agree, of course. I can already tell you you’re going to have reservations, but I’m gonna need you to just shut up for once and listen to the whole spiel. _Then_ you can agree, or try to state your case and then agree anyway, because it’s a brilliant plan and Lys is _brilliant._”

“All right.” Lorenz is still exuding the air of a crumpled bit of newspaper stuck to someone’s shoe on the subway, but he’s clearly making an effort to appear engaged. He sits down again and runs a hand over his hair. “Enlighten us.”

“As I see it,” Lysithea says, “there is one main issue, and solving it will lay to rest a host of other problems. We need to get your public-facing identity to be as seamless and legitimate as possible. If the public and the polls-” she glances at Claude, “-embrace this part of you, your father will have no choice but to go along with it. That will protect you financially _and_ politically. Social standing is everything.”

“Basically, we need to make you the city’s darling,” Hilda adds. “Most people know who you are, in general terms, but you’ve been living under your father’s shadow for so long they don’t know the _real_ you.”

“You want to make me… popular.” Lorenz looks like he swallowed a lemon. “I hate to say it, but you’ll have your work cut out for you. _I_ was never the one at the top of the popularity polls in school.” He's looking at Claude, for some reason. Claude raises his hands in surrender.

“University aside,” Lysithea says, “you have a lot going for you right now. You’re rich and mildly famous, you’re generous with your money without being frivolous, you’re philanthropic. And you’re not half bad to look at, either,” she says with a wink. Lorenz wrinkles his nose in tacit disagreement. “All you really need to tie it all together is…”

“A boyfriend,” Hilda jumps in triumphantly.

For a heartbeat or two, it’s so perfectly silent that Claude swears he could hear a pin drop. Then Lorenz breaks it with a startled cough.

“I… beg your pardon?”

Lysithea smiles primly. “And not just any boyfriend. A man already in the public eye, someone beloved and progressive—the opposite of your father, no offense. Call it _weighing the scales_. Someone to boost your image and make people fall in love with you despite your surname.”

A deathly chill works its way down Claude’s spine. “Hang on.”

Lysithea’s finger pops up like a mousetrap ready to be sprung. “Someone who could use a little _foot traffic _himself.”

“You can’t really be suggesting—”

“_What did I say about interruptions?_”

Lorenz snaps his mouth shut, paper-white except for a distinct bloom of red in the apples of his cheeks. “My apologies.”

“It’s a perfect plan. Especially with those pictures.” Lysithea grins with all her teeth. Claude is reminded uncomfortably of a shark. “A little bit of discreet editing and we can make that stranger look indistinguishable from our favorite hip new politician.”

“Claude,” Lorenz says. Claude jumps. “You want me to pretend to date _Claude_.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Hilda drawls. “Oh, relax, both of you. I’m _kidding_.”

“Not only date,” Lysithea says, swanning over Lorenz’s sputtering, “but fabricate an established, committed relationship. Half the tabloids are obsessed with your supposed singleness already, calling you a playboy, trying to dig up dirt about your nonexistent chain of suspicious ex-lovers. This will put a stop to that.”

“This will be good for you, too, Claude.” Hilda wags a finger at him. “Your approval ratings have been hit or miss lately because you’re trying too hard to court the Roundtable old guard. This will garner approval with the younger generation of voters, maybe convince more than what’s predicted to show up at the polls.”

Claude rubs his forehead in an effort to avoid eye contact with Lorenz, and to give himself a moment to breathe. To _think_. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to… get caught up in this? No offense, Lorenz. I just mean, well… if I go through with it, we can kiss our _old guard_ connections goodbye.”

“Some of them,” Hilda agrees calmly. “But they aren’t going to save you from a flop at the polls. Worry about winning the primaries first, then you can go back to rubbing elbows to your heart’s content.”

“It’s all about how we spin it,” Lysithea chimes in. She plucks a sheet of paper from her briefcase and slides it across the counter to them. “What do you think?”

Claude and Lorenz both lean forward to read the drafted press release, accidentally rubbing shoulders. Claude tries not to flinch too obviously at the contact. At his side, Lorenz sighs softly. Not entirely successful, then.

> _ **For Immediate Release** _
> 
> _Derdriu, Leicester, 06 Wyvern Moon - Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, VP of Marketing at Gloucester Technological Industries Int’l, and Claude von Riegan are pleased to publicly announce their relationship of five years._

“Hang on-”

“-_Five years_?”

Claude scratches his eyebrow. “That does seem like an awfully long time to keep something like that in the dark.”

“With a father like mine, you might be surprised,” Lorenz mutters.

“How come _I_ don’t get a title?” Claude wants to know.

Lysithea arches an eyebrow at him.

“Right. Forget I asked, then.”

> _Gloucester and von Riegan have kept their relations from the public eye for some time, but as the election season progresses, both men have agreed to come forward in hopes of securing support from younger voters in von Riegan’s favor. _
> 
> _Says Gloucester, “Honesty is the best policy when it comes to running for office. My partner has given his all in pursuit of equality in Fódlan and in the Leicester Alliance, and we decided that hiding our love was only going to cause harm to him and to our relationship in the long run.”_

“I didn’t say that,” Lorenz points out, rather unnecessarily. His eyes are a bit glassy, like he can’t quite believe what he’s reading. Claude wonders if it was the “our love” part that did it.

“Obviously not, dear.” Hilda pats his hand. It’s a measure of how shaken he is that he doesn’t snatch it back and scowl at her on pure reflex. “It’s all a big show, but don’t worry. Lys is going to make you the hero instead of the…”

“Outcast?” Lorenz sneers.

“I was going to say prodigal son,” she admits, “but that reflects more poorly on you than you deserve, I think.”

They read on.

> _Von Riegan, heir to House Riegan’s historical seat on the Alliance Roundtable, is supportive of his partner’s decision to come out, and is looking forward to pursuing his political career with his partner at his side. _
> 
> _Gloucester and von Riegan are both available for interviews and statements upon request. Please direct all inquiries to the offices of Ordelia & Dominic, Public Relations._

“Annette’s putting her name on this?” Claude asks, sitting back in his seat. “That’s unexpected.”

Lysithea smiles sweetly. “Oh, we’ve started our own company, didn’t I tell you?” She twirls a stray lock of silvery hair around one finger. “We’ve picked up a handful of clients, but the two of you would _really_ set us apart from the crowd.”

“So this is for your own advancement as well,” Lorenz muses. To Claude’s mild surprise, he doesn’t seem upset by the notion. “In that case, I feel a little less guilty about purloining your services.”

“Claude?” Hilda ticks her manicure on the counter meaningfully. “Thoughts?”

Claude rubs the back of his neck as he considers. Despite himself, he’s interested in the idea—he can’t say no to more traffic at the polls. And Count Gloucester has been a thorn in his side, politically speaking, for a while. The chance to leverage some favors out of him is too good to pass up.

And politics aside… Lorenz is his friend. He wants to help in any way he can.

“How long?” he asks.

“At least until after the primaries,” Hilda says promptly. “If you pull out a win, maybe longer—it would look shady if you dropped him right before elections. It’s not a small commitment, for either of you, so if you have any reservations, now would be the time to raise them.”

“_Reservations_,” Lorenz echoes with a strangled laugh. “Where do I begin?”

“Hey! I’m a catch,” Claude insists, putting a hand to his breast in mock offense. “Handsome, brilliant, debonair…”

Lorenz snorts, not unkindly. “I am not doubting your more personable qualities, Claude. Anyone would be lucky to count themselves your partner. But this… this is more elaborate than I expected. I must confess myself uneasy at such an extended ruse.”

“You wouldn’t be completely in the dark,” Lysithea says in what she probably images is a reassuring tone. Claude still can’t shake the image of a predator circling unsuspecting rabbits in the undergrowth. _Baby girl’s all grown up_. “That’s where Annette and I come in—well, mostly me. She’s courting the employ of some… other high-profile people at the moment. My point is, you’ll be paying me to tell you where to go, what to be seen doing, what to say. And in private, of course, you can live your lives as normal. Although you may want to visit one another more often…”

“It will be more intense in the beginning,” Hilda concedes. “If you think it’s crazy _now_… the media circuit will only get crazier once this press release goes live. But it won’t last forever. Once elections are over you should easily be able to settle back into obscurity.”

There's a month until primaries, then four more until elections. _Not even half a yea_r_… that’s not so bad, right? _Claude rubs his chin thoughtfully and finally, finally looks to Lorenz. His friend is perched on his stool like a gangly stork, staring into his unfinished drink as though it holds all the secrets of the universe, brow pinched unhappily.

“Ladies,” Claude hears himself say. “Would you mind giving us a minute to talk it over?”

“Of course.” Lysithea shuts her laptop but leaves the press release where it is, and she and Hilda remove themselves to the other side of the room, heads already bowed together in quiet conversation. Claude hasn’t had much personal interaction with Lys since their school days, but he can’t say he isn’t relieved to have her here. Even then she was whip-smart, the cleverest person in any given room. Having her on their side is worth the price of her services.

“So.” Claude sits sideways in his chair, arm hanging off the back as he tries to entice Lorenz to look his way. “What are you thinking?”

Lorenz shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, elbows slumped across the countertop. His spine is a miserable curve coiled tight, protective; Claude’s fingers itch with the need to comfort him. “I don’t know. I don’t even know where to start.” He lets loose a hollow laugh that wrings Claude’s heart like a dishrag. “This all feels so… surreal. Like if I wait long enough, or pinch myself hard enough, I’ll wake up and it will have all been a horrible nightmare.”

“Ouch,” Claude jokes.

“That’s _not_ what I meant.” It’s not quite a snap—Lorenz is too well-bred for that—but Claude feels bad anyway.

“Sorry. Just… trying to lighten the mood.”

“How charming that you think such a thing is possible.” It should be an insult, but he sounds like he means it.

“It’s more of a reflex, really,” Claude admits. “But fine, if you’re… at sea… I’ll go first.” He eyes his empty glass—when had he finished that?—but refrains from pouring himself another. He needs a clear head for this. “I’m down. I’m in. If this is what you want to do, you can consider me fully on board.”

For the first time in fifteen minutes, Lorenz looks at him fully. He’s got a little more color to him, now, but he’s still so pale—the points of his eyelashes look like thorns against his skin. “You sound… far more certain than I thought you would be.”

“It wasn’t that difficult of a decision,” Claude says more smoothly than he feels. _At least he’s nice to look at—that will make this easy. _“You and I both stand to benefit from this, as does Lys. It takes the competition down a peg or three…”

“You mean my father.”

“I wasn’t going to spell it out, but yes. He and I have been knocking heads for a while. I _know_ he doesn’t consider me a fitting replacement for my grandfather. I intend to prove him wrong… starting with this. If you’re amenable.”

Sort of testing the waters, Claude slides a hand across the counter to cover Lorenz’s own. Lorenz watches him do it and doesn’t pull away, eyes sharp and curious. His hand is cold. Claude bypasses the half-hearted seduction angle and grips his knobbly fingers hard.

“I only want to if _you_ want to, Lorenz. Make no mistake. I’m all for furthering my own political schemes, but not at the price of a friend’s happiness. But if it _helps_…”

“Always the gentleman, Claude,” Lorenz murmurs. He drops his gaze again. “I only worry about… dragging you down.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m resilient.” He gives Lorenz’s hand a squeeze. “You know me. Like a sunflower, soaking up all the attention.”

“And all the while plotting something dastardly.” The corner of his lip curls up. “I have no doubt you’re already forming plans of your own.”

“Mmmmaybe…”

“That is… oddly comforting.” Lorenz sits back in his chair with a sigh. “Very well. I accept. If for no other reason than to enjoy the look on my father’s face when he hears that I’ve been courting his most hated foe with more than just my money.”

Claude laughs, startled into it, raucous as it breaks against the high ceiling like glass. On the other side of the room, the girls whip towards them, wearing equally devious, devilish smiles. “Good man, Lorenz.” He claps him heartily on the shoulder. “I always did enjoy a challenge.”

“Is that good news I hear?” Hilda sings, galloping back over to them like a deer on delicate stiletto hooves.

“We’re agreed,” Lorenz says with a genteel nod of his head. “We’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” Lysithea claps her hands together. “I’ll forward the press release to the office and we’ll get it sent out right away.” She checks her wristwatch discreetly. “We have two and a half hours until your father’s plane lands in Derdriu. Let’s get to work.”

><><

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write press releases.
> 
> I'm on twitter @rachebones!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz faces his father.

When Lorenz walks in through the main entrance of Gloucester Technologies on Monday, people are staring at him. Not in the “there’s the bastard who signs my paychecks” way, as it sometimes is. Not in the hero-worship way—less frequent, but not unheard-of down at the ground level where data entry clerks mingle with low-level engineers and IT specialists.

They’re looking at him like a giraffe has just walked into the lobby, rather than a man.

Lorenz steels himself and shows not a whit of discomfort on his face as he makes a brisk, but not panicked, break for the elevator bank. He’s been practicing his poker face in the mirror all weekend. Practicing in front of Claude, too, who has a better eye for these things than Lorenz.

_“Your bottom lip is retreating into your mouth. Relax.”_

_“Easy for you to say! Appearing on national television is a relaxing Saturday evening for you.”_

_“Not quite. I just make it **seem** like it. Now look at me and try again.”_

It had been a very long weekend.

He waits longer than usual for an elevator—or so it feels—and when one finally opens, he springs forward like a jack-in-the-box as a handful of interns pile out, gaping at him over their shoulders. His pride doesn’t keep him from jamming the button for the thirty-second floor. Even so, a few people manage to shoulder their way on before the doors close, and Lorenz retreats to the back of the carriage to await his floor.

Thankfully everyone who’s gotten on is a stranger. He’s not quite ready to face the people he sees in the office every day—the ones who know him by name, who refer to him as “Gloucester” instead of “sir” or “Mr. Lorenz.” He resettles the strap of his briefcase on his shoulder for the tenth time and watches the lighted numbers climb.

Next to him, a middle-aged man—Lorenz thinks he vaguely recognizes him from accounting—shifts a few inches further away. In the glossy reflection of the carriage’s metal plating, Lorenz can see him glaring daggers via his peripherals.

Lorenz shuts his eyes. So it begins. Part of him wants to lash out, to tell him off right here in an elevator full of people who can’t escape. Get it over with. But there are more fearsome dragons to slay yet, so he inhales deeply through his nose and lets it out slow through his mouth, and waits.

_Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one—_

Ding! The carriage glides to a seamless halt. En masse, the elevator’s contents pile out into the hallway beyond, even though a few of them had selected floors higher in the building. There is no one waiting to get on. Small mercies.

The doors slide shut and Lorenz slumps against the wall. Five seconds to breathe. To collect himself.

_Sometimes five seconds is all you need,_ says Claude’s voice in his head. Another leftover from the weekend’s coaching. Lysithea left this part mostly to him—after all, he was the one with practical experience in dealing with… publicity. Lorenz’s position leaves him with his fair share of recognition in all sorts of arenas, as does his distinctive coloring, but this… this is new to him.

So he does as Claude had taught him. He breathes through the fluttering in his chest, the sweating of his palms, and by the time the doors slide open to the Marketing and Advancement level, he’s able to swan off the elevator and down the hall to his office without so much as a hitch in his step.

He immediately feels more at home. These are his people. His messy, brilliant, backbiting, creative people, the ones who make the Gloucester brand tick forward ahead of its bowling ball of a CEO. A healthy percentage of them fall under the queer umbrella themselves, he’s quite certain, and he receives more than a few warm smiles as he breezes past desks and cubicles, the occasional nod, a handful of _hello, Mr. Lorenz_es from people who’ve barely had the gall to speak to him face to face before.

And then, of course, there’s Brennan. His beloved secretary. She’s already at her desk outside his office, a steaming paper cup waiting for him to pick up as he walks by. Usually he _does_ just walk by, sparing a brief greeting before diving into emails and meeting prep, but today he wraps his hand around the cup—soy latte, venti, two extra shots of espresso; goddess _bless_ that woman—and clears his throat gently.

“Hello, Mr. Lorenz,” Brennan says. She glances at him over the rims of her glasses, fingers typing away despite her inattention. “Something the matter? Did I get your order wrong?”

“My order is perfect, Brennan,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

She looks at him again—really looks, this time, her severe expression softening. He wonders what she sees. “Your father sent a meeting invite for eight twenty-five. I declined it on your behalf. You have a presentation to give at nine, and you need time to prepare.”

All the air goes out of Lorenz’s lungs with fear and then fill again just as quickly, leaving him oddly breathless and tingling. _Don’t hyperventilate. Everything is going to be fine. _“Thank you, Brennan,” he says as evenly as he can manage. “I am… deeply appreciative.” He picks up his cup, preparing to shut himself in his office and have a private breakdown, but Brennan’s gentle throat-clearing stops him.

“Some of the interns put this together for you,” she says, sliding a folded piece of cardstock over to him.

He snatches it up and flees.

His office looks out over the busy, bustling streets of Derdriu’s business district, floor-to-ceiling windows giving him an excellent view of glass and steel and, currently, bland greyish sky. Rain is in the forecast. He flings his coat onto his desk, sets his briefcase down with a modicum of restraint, and stands at the window to open the paper.

It’s a card. Handmade, obviously cobbled together this morning with highlighters and dry-erase markers. A single word is printed out in rainbow block letters across the centerfold: _CONGRATULATIONS._ And all around it, signatures. Some he recognizes—isn’t that Paul from project management?—and most he doesn’t, but all are scribbled with glee and enthusiasm, often accompanied by little notes. _You rock,_ and _thank you_, and _we support you. _

Lorenz stares at the card for a very long time, blinking back tears.

Around eight forty-five, his phone beeps with an incoming message from Brennan. He hits speakerphone, glancing at her through the glass wall where she’s pulling an apologetic face. “Big boss called, says he’s on the way down. I couldn’t put him off.”

He glances at the card still open on his desk and touches the corner lightly before slipping it into a drawer. “That’s all right, Brenn. Thank you for the warning.”

Despite his inattentiveness so far, he _does_ have a presentation to give in fifteen minutes, so instead of fretting over his father’s impending arrival, he opens his laptop and skims his notes. It’s routine stuff, end of quarter post-mortem for senior marketing management; he’ll be the highest ranking person there, so he doesn’t anticipate any overt flak. It’s all good news, anyway. Makes for a smooth start to the day, if it weren’t for…

His father doesn’t knock. Of course not. But the walls are glass, and Lorenz pretends not to notice him prowling down the hallway like a stumpy stormcloud, bowling past people without a care. By the time he reaches Lorenz’s office, Lorenz has fully settled into the persona he spent so many hours crafting: an untouchable man, sheltered from the storms of life by impenetrable composure.

He hopes.

“Lorenz,” Athur Hellman Gloucester says before the door has even shut behind him. Then it does shut, loudly.

“Good morning, father. Welcome back from Dagda. I trust your trip was fruitful?”

He meets his father’s eyes coolly. Arthur is glaring back at him, beady-eyed, face gone a blotchy red that pairs poorly with his greying lavender hair. The only thing Lorenz inherited from him, thank goodness. The thought puts a smile behind his teeth, threatening to break free, and he lifts an eyebrow.

“Or not…?”

“It was a successful venture, yes,” Arthur says at last, relinquishing control of the conversation before it's even begun. Lorenz tries not to breathe a sigh of relief—it’s far too soon to celebrate. “Agreements are already being drawn up as we speak to establish a satellite office there. But that’s not what I came to discuss.”

“No?” Lorenz asks, more calmly than he feels.

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” his father snaps. He hasn’t sat in either of the provided chairs that face Lorenz’s desk, and Lorenz suddenly regrets not standing to greet him as Arthur braces both hands on the desk’s edge and leans over it, looming like a thunderclap about to boom. “You’re far too smart for that. Smarter than I gave you credit for.”

So pretense is out the window, then. Lorenz shuts his laptop and slides it into his briefcase with a sigh. “I took steps to protect myself. That is all.”

“And you expect the public—you expect _me_—to believe this little ruse of yours, with the Riegan runt?”

“Believe whatever you wish.” Lorenz _does_ stand then, drawing up to his full height. He looks down at his father and lets a little bit of that smile creep into his voice, sneak between his teeth like a viper. “I’ve been working my whole life to see this company flourish, and I don’t intend to throw that away for the sake of your pride. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some upper management to make happy.”

He slips around his father’s low-lying bulk and out into the hall, brisk but not panicked. Brennan is hiding a smile behind her computer screen as he passes. _Lorenz: one, Father: zero. _

It won’t be the last time he’s forced to confront his father, but as first times go he’s happy with the results. The adrenaline rush of standing up to him, face to face, buoys him through his presentation and into the next meeting, and the next. He returns to his office around eleven-thirty and conducts a phone call with some salespeople working remotely in Fhirdiad and Sreng. By the time Brennan knocks on his door to remind him to have lunch, it’s nearly one o’clock and he still has barely glanced at his work emails, let alone his phone.

“And a message for you,” Brennan adds. She sticks a post-it to his monitor before slipping out again to take her own lunch break.

The note is in her hand, but they’re not her words. _Lunch on me, whenever you’re free. -C._

Like a bucket of ice water poured over his head—a feeling he’s intimately familiar with, unfortunately—Lorenz is thrown back into his new reality. Apart from a few sideways glances here and there, some poorly-concealed titters behind hands, he’s fallen almost completely back into the rhythm of work; but things are different now. He has a whole new set of obligations, and he finds he’s ill-prepared to tackle them.

He ignores the detritus of notifications and messages on his phone and rings Claude. The answer comes more quickly than he expected.

“Hey! There you are. Thought you dropped off the face of the earth on me.”

“My apologies.” Lorenz glances through the glass. There are a few people wandering the hall outside, but most everyone is either eating at their desks or off getting a quick bite elsewhere. His stomach rumbles jealously. “I’ve been… busy.”

“I can imagine. Is this an _I’m too busy to eat_ call or a _yes, please, I’d love to_ call?”

“Somewhere in between.” He hesitates, foolishly—it’s not as if there’s anyone else who can overhear him. And yet. “Is this a… a social outing? Or part of the ruse?”

“Can’t it be both?” Claude says in his ear, far too cheerfully. His voice is a bit thin with distance, and Lorenz can hear the occasional rasp of static against the mic that’s too inconsistent to be breathing.

“Are you outside?”

“Yeah. Down a few levels. I’ve got a reservation at _Fresca_ if you have an hour to spare for me.” His tone is honey-sweet, and if it weren’t for the _Plan_, Lorenz would have written it off as nothing out of the ordinary. Claude was just like that, warm and friendly and outgoing; he was easy to get wrapped up in. Easy to follow, one he started dragging you along. Lorenz made up his mind.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes. Somewhere out of the wind, please, my hair won’t appreciate it.”

“You got it, babe,” Claude manages to sneak in before Lorenz can hang up on him.

Lorenz swallows and sets his phone facedown a moment. _Babe_ is new.

He’s really going to have to get used to it, but he allows himself a minute to reel over it, chew the word over in his mind. When it feels less like a slap in the face and more like an ill-fitting suit—uncomfortable, but not unbearable—he gathers his phone and his keys and leaves the office, locking it securely behind him.

><><

_Fresca_ is a popular open-air cafe in a building adjacent to Lorenz’s office. It isn’t the first time he’s eaten there, and the hostess doesn’t even ask for his name, just smiles blandly and directs him to a table for two out of the main thoroughfare, pooled in sunlight but protected from the worst of the wind by a tasteful potted palm. Claude is already there, leaning back in his chair like a casual Adonis: shirt collar undone, blazer open, one ankle crossed at the opposite knee as he sips from a champagne flute, of all things. He pushes his sunglasses back into his hair as Lorenz draws near, smiling his signature thousand-watt smile.

“There you are.” Only a little belatedly, he leaps to his feet and takes Lorenz’s suit jacket, folding it conscientiously over the back of his chair. There’s an awkward half-moment where Lorenz lists toward him and Claude just blinks, a startled deer—then he laughs and swoops in for a peck on the cheek before regaining his seat.

“Well that was appalling,” Lorenz mutters, skin tingling where Claude’s dry lips had barely touched. A glass of champagne is already waiting for him when he sits, pale and effervescent. He brings it to his lips and forces himself not to drain it in one go. “What’s the occasion?”

“Us, of course.” Claude clinks their glasses together with a smile. “To being our truest selves.”

A bit heavy-handed, in Lorenz’s opinion, not to mention a blatant lie; but he smirks a little anyway and lifts his glass in answer. “How optimistic of you.”

“I can be optimistic for both of us, at least right now.” Claude sets his glass down without drinking from it and leans his elbows on the table. A bit uncouth, but it does provide a modicum of privacy from potential eavesdroppers. “You can relax, by the way. I didn’t ask you to lunch to flirt with you loudly in public.”

Lorenz hums and glances at him over his menu. The words are gibberish, his mind spinning far too quickly to make sense of the small typeface, but he should at least _try_ to keep up appearances. “Why did you, then?”

“To get you out of that office. Out of your own head.” Under the table, something taps Lorenz’s foot. “Sorry. Long legs you’ve got there.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “Well. I can safely say, mission accomplished.”

“So easily?” Claude looks delighted, but whatever he’s about to say next is interrupted by the arrival of their server.

Lorenz orders mindlessly—one of the specials, something with shrimp, and allows himself a deep sigh as Claude tops off their glasses from the champagne bucket. The sun warms his cheek and the dark velvet-black fabric of his waistcoat, but not unpleasantly so. Across from him, Claude sips and primps and settles, a hatchling peacock doting on himself as the breeze ruffles his dark hair. The late spring sunshine agrees with him. Brings out the honey in his eyes.

“My father visited me this morning, early,” Lorenz hears himself say. The gears of Claude’s perpetual motion grind to a stop.

“Oh?”

“If he was trying to intimidate me, he put on a poor show of it. I’ll blame it on the jetlag—I don’t think I’ll be so lucky a second time.”

“So dour.” Claude toes the arch of Lorenz’s loafer under the table, on purpose this time. “Smile, my dear. I’m sure he’s been suitably chastised and made ashamed of himself, and will never be able to look you in the face again.”

“That last part may be true,” Lorenz admits slowly, “if only because he’s so thoroughly disgusted by me. But I will take the victory. Thank you, Claude, for the reminder. And…” He tips his head, lets his eyes wander surreptitiously through the crowd. It’s a full patio today, mostly businesspeople talking shop away from the prying ears of cubicle walls, but he seems more than one pair of eyes trained eagle-like in their direction. “I thought you said this wasn’t for… business.”

“Well. _Mostly_ it isn’t. Mostly I just wanted to get lunch with my friend. Buuuut…”

“There it is.”

“I did ask Lysithea, before I called,” Claude admits. “She gave her seal of approval. Two birds, one stone, et cetera.”

Champagne glitters on the back of his tongue and Lorenz thinks, rather wistfully, that he has missed this. He sighs without quite meaning to, and Claude’s brow crinkles under an artfully tousled lock of hair.

“Something wrong?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Out with it, my friend. I’m all ears.”

“You aren’t the only one,” Lorenz murmurs, but he succumbs easily beneath the inviting weight of Claude’s golden smile. “I was thinking, this is… nice. Having lunch together. It’s been quite a while since you’ve had time for—for frivolities.” _For me_, he almost said, but that would have been an appalling slip. Not to mention ungrateful. Claude is busier than he’s ever been, and he’s a busy sort of man, always flitting from one thing to another. It used to drive Lorenz insane, during their college days, how he never seemed to alight anywhere for longer than a breath or two, a butterfly constantly fluttering out of reach of the flycatcher. How was he supposed to _keep an eye_ on the heretofore unannounced heir of Riegan if he couldn’t keep up with him? But of course, that rivalry was all in the past now.

“Why Lorenz,” Claude says, his smile whetted to a conniving edge, “are you saying you’ve _missed_ me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Well done, Claude, you’ve passed Not-so-Hidden Meanings 101.”

The glister in his eyes falters. “You’re right. It _has_ been a while.” He chews vaguely on his lip, drawing Lorenz’s traitorous eye unwittingly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize!” Lorenz huffs. “You’re running for a place at the Roundtable, that’s no mean feat. I don’t begrudge you an inch.”

Claude shakes his head. “That’s not—I mean, yeah, it’s true I’ve been busy. Insanely busy.” He laughs, but it’s hollow, a gourd with its seeds scooped out. For an instant Lorenz catches a flash of something on his face that _isn’t_ his usual warm, crowd-pleasing smile; but it’s gone again just as quickly, buried under another generous swallow of champagne. “I just never meant to make you feel like a _frivolity_, Lorenz. That’s all.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Lorenz says, taken aback. “But my statement stands. You’re juggling twenty things at once on a slow day. I know you.”

“Too well,” Claude agrees. He lifts his half-empty flute in a toast, which Lorenz accepts. “You know, this whole… _thing_…” and he waggles his eyebrows meaningfully, “...is really a blessing in disguise. _You_ get to take more cushy lunch breaks, and _I_ get to spend more time with my old pal Lorenz. Win-win.”

Lorenz smears his half-hearted smile against the rim of his glass. “Seems like I’m getting the better end of that deal.”

“What! Nonsense. I enjoy your company immensely, you know that.”

“It’s a bit more dour these days than what you are perhaps accustomed to.” He watches a single bead of condensation catch at the rim of his glass and trail down, slowly, coaxed by the sun until it pools on the base of the flute, lonely and shimmering. Claude is quiet. “I apologize, I am… not at my best.” _Today. This week. This year?_

Claude reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “It’s okay, Lorenz. You don’t have to be. Not with me.”

Lorenz feels a sweet tension swelling in his chest, liable to crack his ribs. He’d forgotten, somehow, how forgiving Claude is of his foibles, how readily he shrugs off slights or little grievances. He is a rock unbothered by the endlessly flowing stream—part of the reason they got along so well in school, despite their initial mistrust.

“Thank you,” he says, on the cusp of something more. But before he can give words to the weight in his chest, a shadow whisks up to their table and a server begins distributing their food. The fragile moment breaks and recedes like the retreating tide. Lorenz lets it go.

They turn to lighter topics as they tuck in. Claude ordered the house’s _ceviche_, which comes served in a cocktail glass as big as his face, and he takes great joy in alternating between slurping his food and drawing old stories out of Lorenz like a clown pulling endless scarves from his sleeves. Between the champagne and the food, Lorenz finds his spirit lightening. Claude is good for a reminiscent yarn or three—talking with him is like whacking a shuttlecock back and forth across an invisible net, each of them in a race to keep up with the other, and he finds himself laughing more and drinking less as the hour whiles away.

Talk of school days, as it often does, eventually leads back to their fraternity, and their ongoing friendly rivalry with some of the other houses at Garreg Mach. Traditionally, fraternities and sororities had been divided up by gender and nationality, but in more modern times "frats" were less like exclusive clubs and more like collections of people pushed higgeldy-piggeldy together into any available upperclassman housing. The dorms were nothing to speak of, so after freshman year everyone rushed to join the house they liked best, often with their friends in tow. After a year floating by in their TA's mish-mash of a house, Claude had broken off to form the Golden Deer, taking Lorenz and a few others with him. It just happened that his on-again off-again boyfriend at the time had formed his own. Which, of course, meant war.

Lorenz has vague memories of being cripplingly jealous of Dimitri, which he’d stuffed down into the back of his mind and refused to deal with at the time. Claude was charismatic, after all, and Lorenz was his roommate, used to being the center of his sunshine-bright attention. It only made sense to be snippy with the person who insisted on siphoning away a little of that sunshine for himself. But Lorenz was above such petty, selfish concerns, and instead of confronting it he funneled that jealousy into the infamous campus-wide Deer vs. Lions tug-of-war, led happily by Claude himself.

Now, reliving it, he feels a twinge of guilt. Even as he laughs along with Claude’s rosy-tinted memories of skinny-dipping with “the lads” of their fraternity, he wonders whether that stifled jealousy had been an early indicator of something else. Something he’s only lately been able to confront head-on. Much good that it’s done him.

“...and you _stole_ his fucking underpants. Goddess, I still can’t believe you pulled that off so flawlessly. It reminds me of… well, _me_.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “What can I say, I learned from the best.”

“He was so embarrassed,” Claude snickers. “Now _there’s _a tale for the tabloids. Not many people can say they made off with the future King of Faerghus’ tighty-whities and _got away with it_.”

“Keep your voice down,” Lorenz sniffs, but he’s smiling behind his hand. “It’s not really something to be proud of, Claude.”

“Nonsense. It’s good for a laugh, at the very least.” Claude hums and taps his fingers against his chin as though deep in thought. “I wonder if he’s upgraded at all, or if he still wears—”

“_Claude!_”

“What? Can’t a guy be curious?”

Lorenz eyes him, suddenly stone-cold sober. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

Claude’s mouth drops open. “Sorry?”

“I know your parting was… amicable… but if you had your heart set on changing the world, surely being the husband of a king is _one _way to go about it. Arguably an easier way than the one you’ve chosen.”

“Thank you for your faith in me, but absolutely fucking _no_ thank you,” Claude laughs. Lorenz peers at him, scanning for the slightest waver in his voice, the faintest chip in his flawless smile, but can find nothing out of place. “We decided we were better off as friends a _long_ time ago. I’m not really royalty material. I’d rather earn my place in the world with my own two hands than marry into it. Or be… born into it.”

Lorenz hums, not quite satisfied; but it’s clear Claude has no interest in delving deeper into the topic, so he lets it lie. “Never one to take the easy road, are you.”

“Nor you.” Claude arches a brow at him. “I like that about you, Lorenz. It’s why we get on so well.”

“Why, because we’re both masochists?”

“Ha! Maybe so.” He smile is sideways and a little sly, and he cackles when he sees the telltale blush creep up Lorenz’s cheeks. “Go together indeed… what kind of club was that, anyway?”

Lorenz blinks, caught in the crossfire of Claude’s rapidly-moving mind. “Sorry? Club?”

“You know, the one…” He tilts his head, leans in a little closer. Their knees knock together under the table. Lorenz may be the taller of the two, but Claude is no slouch in the leg department—they shuffle a bit, and Lorenz tries not to blush harder at the press of Claude’s calf muscle to his own. In _public_, no less. “The pictures? Not to, er, dredge up bad memories…”

“They aren’t all bad,” Lorenz says, a touch wistfully. “And it was… I don’t know. A regular sort of place. Nothing inherently… risque.”

Claude smirks a little at his old-fashioned phrasing, but doesn’t tease. “Maybe you’ll have to take me there. I can’t believe there’s a gay club in Derdriu I _haven’t_ been to, but here we are…”

“It is… exclusive,” Lorenz reminds him. “By invitation only.”

“Then you’ll just have to _invite_ me, won’t you?” He’s laughing with his eyes, golden-green and glittering, but some of the humor fades as he leans closer and asks, more somberly, “Who was he? If… if I can ask. Do I know him?”

“No. He was just… someone.” Lorenz rubs his mouth with one hand, like he’s trying to erase something from it. “I tried to call him the other day but, ah. I think he’s backed off. Understandably.”

Claude scowls, for all the world like a wolf with his hackles raised. “Still. He could at least have picked up and heard what you had to say.”

“Better for us both that he did not, in the end. It’s a complicated situation, and _now_, well… only a fool would have any interest in approaching me after this.”

“After…” Claude’s mouth draws up thin and displeased. “Right. After. Fuck, Lorenz, I didn’t even think…”

“It’s not of concern,” Lorenz says quickly, peering determinedly at his empty plate. As if he has any appetite left. “This—your goals, and my own—they are more important.”

A heavy silence falls over the table, both of them subsumed in their own thoughts. Lorenz doesn’t even want to make a guess at where Claude’s have taken him. His own are maudlin enough. It’s just his luck, isn’t it? To finally gather the courage to put himself out into the world, to accept another man’s advances, and then to have it all blow up his face so spectacularly… to then _bind_ himself in word and deed to someone like _Claude_—

“We’ll find someone,” Claude says suddenly, stubbornly. “For you, I mean.”

“Oh really? Who’s _we_?”

“Me! And you, of course—I know you pretty damn well, but you should probably have _some_ input on the qualities of your own partner. And maybe Hilda. She’s got a good eye for that sort of thing.”

“Claude…” Lorenz’s mouth twitches. “You’re saying, after our dog and pony show of a romance and subsequent breakup, which is sure to be garishly public… you’re going to find me a boyfriend? Who _won’t_ flee at the very idea of Lorenz Hellman Gloucester?”

“Yes! That’s precisely what I’m saying. It’s hardly fair to take up so much of your valuable dating time and then not… I don’t know, pay it back somehow.” He plops his elbow on the table and extends his pinkie finger. “Swearsies?”

Lorenz shakes his head. “You are ridiculous.” Nevertheless he reaches out, locking their pinkies and their eyes together. “Very well. I accept your solemn vow, Claude.”

Claude grins, and yanks his hand toward him to kiss the backs of his knuckles. Lorenz goes red all the way to his hairline. “Deal.”

><><

Lunch takes longer than Lorenz had anticipated, and by the time he returns to his office it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Brennan does not look as though she begrudges him—in fact, she looks downright relieved as he swans past her desk, shoulders looser and smile easier than they’ve been in days.

“Present for you,” she says, even as he’s pushing open the door. “From the Prime Minister.”

Lorenz walks into his office and stops short. There’s a bouquet awaiting him on his desk, resplendent and excessive and so very _Ferdinand_. A card lays beside it, shimmery cream cardstock, with a brief but heartfelt note penned in Ferdinand’s own hand.

_Congratulations, dear boy. I’m stupidly proud of you. Take these flowers with my love (Hubert says to tell you “well done”), and tell your father to take the stick out of his arse before he trips over it. P.S. have business in Derdriu next month, I’ll be very put out if we can’t arrange a nice luncheon. Yours, Ferdie._

Lorenz sighs, and smiles, and shuts his door softly to dab at his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he felt so incurably fragile. It’s wearisome, and yet cathartic somehow.

It’s rare that he can actually just pick up his phone and _call_ Ferdinand without having to navigate a delicate gauntlet of interns and secretaries and personal assistants—and that’s just attempting to reach him by personal phone—but by some stroke of divine luck, Ferdinand answers on the fourth ring.

“Lorenz!” he says, as guileless and delighted as ever. “Did you get the flowers, then?”

“I did. I am incredibly appreciative of your support, Ferdinand.”

“Well, I am happy to give it! They included the card, didn’t they? I know it’s a bit unusual to have a note couriered over special, but I couldn’t stand the thought of adding a cheap greeting card to it, they’re never quite what one would want…”

Lorenz sits back in his chair and lets Ferdinand rattle on, content for once to let someone else carry the conversation. He only contributes a little, humming and chuckling when appropriate. Then Ferdinand clears his throat and says, with a modicum of restraint, “I _am_ curious, though… I can’t say I was expecting the news about von Riegan. You and him, I mean.”

Lorenz comes abruptly awake in his chair, adrenaline bolting through him like lightning. “Ah… yes… he and…”

“What I can’t figure out,” Ferdinand continues, ignoring his blustering, “is whether it’s true, and you really _did_ manage to keep such a delightfully cheeky romance from me, your dear friend, Ferdinand von Aegir—”

“_Ferdie_—”

“—or whether it’s all a delicious front you’re putting up to keep your father docile. Frankly, I can’t decide which I like better.”

“You’re worse than Dorothea,” Lorenz mutters, warm at the back of his neck.

“Listen. I would never betray your trust, you know this. And you needn’t tell me a thing if you don’t wish to, but I _am_ dying of curiosity, and if I don’t have it out of you now you can be sure I’ll have it out of you in a few weeks when I’m in town.”

Lorenz sighs heavily. “It is… the latter. But…”

“I knew it!” Ferdinand crows in his ear. Lorenz winces and pulls his phone back slightly. “But forgive me, you were about to say…?”

“Nothing,” Lorenz lies, glancing at the clock on his wall. His afternoon has truly been wiled away, but he can’t bring himself to care overmuch. “I’m still mulling it over.”

“So which is it? It’s nothing, or it’s something you’re _mulling over_?”

“Never mind. Perhaps we can speak of it in a few weeks. What are you doing in Derdriu, anyway?”

“Political things. Putting in appearances. I’m sure we’ll cross paths officially as well as socially, considering your new, or should I say _old_, paramour. There’s that charity gala, surely you’ll be in attendance?”

Lorenz wracks his brain, trying to conjure a memory of an invitation. “It must have slipped my mind. But if Claude is meant to be there, I’m sure I will be as well. Lysithea will have it all in hand…”

“Ah yes, she’s working your case, is she not? As they say. Ha! Well, good on you, my dear; she’s as ruthless and clever as they come. Edelgard is still huffy that she never managed to snag her for a position here.” Ferdinand hums speculatively. “I’m afraid I must sign off, I have some things to take care of before I try and track down my husband. Best of luck, dear boy, please keep me up to date.”

“I shall. Thank you for your kind words, Ferdinand. And the flowers.”

Lorenz hovers over the laptop a moment after hanging up, and closes the lid without checking his emails. Whatever is left can wait until tomorrow. With a weary sigh, he tucks laptop and card into his briefcase—the makeshift congratulatory note from his employees will be staying here, a small piece of comfort in an unfeeling wasteland—and collects the flowers on his way out.

He spends the ride home checking his phone. He’s been avoiding it for almost two days, and the backlog of messages is truly horrendous, but the gentle perfume of the flowers soothes his pounding head long enough to make it doable.

There’s more support than he anticipated, somehow. Texts and emails from friends he’s hardly spoken to in the decade since university, distant family members extending warm wishes, even a brief but heartfelt word from his old academic advisor. That one he replies to personally, for nostalgia’s sake. He wonders if they’re still teaching at Garreg Mach. His class reunion is coming up in a couple months. Perhaps he’ll drop in.

A new text arrives as he’s responding to an email from Lysithea outlining a handful of interviews he should consider. It’s Claude.

> **Thanks for getting lunch with me. It was nice to take a break. xoxo**

Lorenz hovers over “reply” for long enough that the push notification disappears as he deliberates. He draws his lower lip between his teeth and continues reading the email.

The last option catches his eye more than the others, which are all in the same general vein. Fill-in-the-blank news source wants an interview, a quote, a statement, please respond by [x] date and time. At the bottom of the list, though, is something else. A request from Fodlan’s _Vogue_ for a full interview and photoshoot.

Lorenz blinks, and reads the bullet point again. Shoots off a message to Lysithea.

> **Vogue? You can’t be serious. **

**Deadly**, is the near-immediate response. **You can’t buy this kind of publicity. Let me know ASAP if you want in.** Then, as he continues to deliberate, she adds, **If it helps you decide, you know the person they’ve put on this assignment. Ashe Ubert? **

“Ah,” Lorenz says aloud, smiling to himself. He doesn’t know Ashe particularly well, but they had a few classes together in school. He hadn’t realized Ashe had risen to such lofty journalistic heights.

> **In that case, yes. Do I have to do the photoshoot? **

**Yes**. Another brusque, instantaneous reply, followed quickly by, **That’s kind of the point. You used to love it when people fawned over you in school, silly, what happened?**

Lorenz grimaces. A little too close to home. He responds neutrally with his acquiescence, and turns his phone off. That’s enough maneuvering at the fringes of the limelight for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for the kind response to this fic so far!! i have a couple different projects i'm trying to juggle at once but i'm going to try to keep to a somewhat regular update schedule (why i picked wednesdays i'll never know....) 
> 
> i'm on twitter at @rachebones, come say hi ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand gives Claude The Talk.

“Heya, mister leader man.”

Claude flinches back, but not fast enough to avoid Hilda’s softball swing as she clips him in the side of the head with a rolled-up magazine. “Ouch! Fuck! What was that for?”

“You’re working too hard, so I got you a special treat.” She sits primly on the edge of his desk and sets down three things: a macchiato, a muffin, and a copy of the latest edition of _Vogue_. Claude opens his mouth to complain and shuts it again.

He’d known about the interview, of course; he helped Lorenz prep for it, in the handful of minutes he had between hours of writing speeches and keeping up with correspondence. What he’s not prepared for is the reality of _Lorenz_, his pen-and-paper boyfriend, on the cover of a fucking world-renowned magazine.

“Shit,” he croaks. He clears his throat. “I mean, ah—nice. I didn’t realize he was gonna have a full spread.” _Cough. _“Who… took the pictures?”

“Ignatz Victor. Insanely talented artist out of northern Leicester, he was at Garreg Mach for a year before he dropped out and went to art school instead.” Hilda thumps the magazine with one hand. “It’s a good article, too. You should read it once you’re done drooling over the cover.”

“Hey! I am not—”

But she’s already gone, heels clicking on the floor as she beats a strategic retreat. Damn her.

Alone in his office again, Claude draws the magazine toward himself with two careful fingers and reaches for the coffee with his other hand. Lorenz is, in a word or three, drop-dead fucking _gorgeous_. Claude has always known it—well, except for maybe during freshman year, but they were all disasters then, par for the course—but seeing it laid out like this in such an incontrovertible fashion is… doing things to him.

It’s a portrait, shot head-on, though Lorenz’s face is turned just slightly to one side. Showing off his fantastic cheekbones, no doubt. His long purple hair falls shiny and pin-straight down the side of his face, half-hiding one eye, made up smokey and long-lashed and shimmering. It’s the only overt makeup he’s wearing, aside from an asymmetric smear of brilliant violet along his lower lip, but it’s striking. Claude can scarcely tear himself away from those eyes, deep pools of indigo lit with halos by the studio lights. Lorenz was made for this sort of thing, honestly. Sharp-angled, intense, his unique coloring made effortless by the carriage of his shoulders, his pointy chin that he’s grown into since college.

Claude sips blindly from the coffee cup, finding it overly sweet and not caring. When did his mouth get so dry? He clears his throat and flips open the magazine.

> _Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. A name not easily forgotten. When I first met him in school, he was a year ahead of me and already renowned across campus for many things. His stubborn, unselfconscious flair. His diction, so precise and yet grandiose, like hearing calligraphy spoken out loud. His incredible gift for making a person feel special. Meeting him again, on the cusp of worldwide fame, I am hardly surprised to find these qualities unchanged. _

Claude grins. It’s all true—by his second year, Lorenz had blossomed a lot from the gangly, haughty young man he’d been as a freshman—if perhaps slightly rose-tinted by the lens of time. Still, Ashe is an excellent writer, and he finds himself drawn in by the quick, earnest prose.

> _He declines to answer my more personal questions regarding his newly-announced relationship with Claude von Riegan, even when I swear to withhold them from the article. I am disappointed, but not surprised—Gloucester has always been a private man. I express my surprise that he revealed his sexuality at all, and he is, as ever, unshaken. _
> 
> _“Some people have told me I took a great risk in being forthright. Perhaps I did. But I have never been afraid of taking risks, particularly when the outcome could be positively impactful for someone less fortunate. My position affords me a great many fallbacks—it would be a coward’s choice to remain silent when so many people, young and impressionable people, are looking toward their leaders to provide clarity and sincerity.”_
> 
> _Does Lorenz consider himself a leader? “Perhaps not in the traditional sense,” he admits. “But I won’t pretend to be unaware of my own visibility, the traction I have in certain arenas. The time is fast approaching when neutrality in politics will be a pointless farce. Better to stand up now and be counted than turn my back on a country at the precipice of great social change.”_

Claude gives himself a minute to read it through again, picking out the parts that delight him most. He can recognize some of his own coaching in Lorenz’s answers, but more rewarding than that are the moments of stark honesty. Lorenz must have really felt comfortable with Ashe, and with good reason—Ashe has written him like a knight in a fairy tale, bold and fearless and fighting to protect those weaker than himself. All qualities Lorenz possesses in spades, but whether or not he _knows_ it is… another matter.

Claude should get back to work, but after his second readthrough he finds himself picking up his phone and opening the most recent message thread.

**[Claude] I didn’t realize I had Fodlan’s next top model for a boyfriend ;) **

Too flirty? Too late. He sets his phone face-up on his desk and thumbs the magazine closed reluctantly. This speech isn’t going to write itself.

His phone buzzes with the reply a few minutes later. He’s written approximately two words in that entire time.

**[Lorenz] That’s kind of you to say. I feel a bit ridiculous. **

**[Claude] Why? **

**[Lorenz] It’s just rather far out of my purview. Fashion magazines and so forth. **

Claude gives the cover another peek and allows himself one more indulgence.

**[Claude] Well if you wanted to go into the field full-time I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem. Leave tech marketing behind, work the runway instead. **

There’s a bit of a pause before the response comes through as Claude is draining his coffee, hoping he hasn’t overstepped. **[Lorenz] Ha! I take it you liked the spread, then?**

**[Claude] Very much so.**

**[Lorenz] That is reassuring. I felt a bit like a clown being caked in makeup, but I trust your judgement. **

**Hilda agrees with me**_, _Claude types carefully. He glances through the half-open door as though waiting for her to burst back in at the mention of her name, but he remains undisturbed. **She has a better eye for these things than I do, if that helps assuage your fears. **

They chat back and forth a bit more before Lorenz excuses himself, all politeness, to return to his work. Claude should do the same, really, but the thread of his concentration has snapped, leaving him unmoored in his own office. He leans back in his chair and lifts his feet off the floor to spin in a slow, lazy circle like a child, watching the ceiling spin in tandem.

They’ve been friends for years, but in many ways Lorenz is still a mystery to him. They were roommates all through university—Lorenz attending for business, Claude for political science—though the early days of freshman year had been… difficult. But after six months of sniping and snapping at each other like young pups growing used to shared territory, something had just… clicked. Maybe it was the late night phone call Lorenz had walked in on, the night Claude heard the news about his grandfather. Maybe it was Claude snitching a bottle of wine from the professor’s lounge and dragging Lorenz up on the roof of their dorm to share it, physically beating down the barriers between them with alcohol and hooliganism. Either way, they’d come back from winter hols and found themselves fast friends, to the bafflement of everyone around them, and despite their differences—and, at times, the distances between them—they’ve been joined at the hip ever since.

Until recently, at least. Claude digs the palms of his hands into his eye sockets and tries to unravel the thread of the last year or so, find the weak spot where it started to dissolve…

There’s a rap on the doorframe. “_Ahem._”

“Hil!” He snaps upright almost fast enough to give himself whiplash. “Ah, sorry. Did you need something?”

Hilda raises an eyebrow. “Derdriu Inquirer wants to know your opinion of your _boyfriend’s_ new clout in the fashion industry.”

Claude sighs, feeling strangely prickly despite the validity of the question. Of all the tabloids they could be working with, _Inquirer_ isn’t the worst, but he still has to bite back a snarl of irritation as he says, “I dunno, I approve, I’m proud of him, I think he’s sexy and everyone should be jealous of my hot piece of ass. Just make something up, isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”

“Touch-yy,” Hilda sings softly under her breath, but she retreats, otherwise unfazed. Claude grimaces and leans back in his chair again, staring at the unremarkable ceiling.

_Get a grip, von Riegan. You haven’t seen anything yet. _

><><

The rest of the day is a bust, as far as work goes, and he returns home late with a heavy briefcase and the throb of a budding migraine behind his eyes. He returns alone. Hilda will sometimes stay with him in one of the guest rooms if he asks, but there’s a few more days yet before he has any back to back public appearances—his usual excuse for keeping her around—so he sends her home in the car and makes a beeline for the couch.

The townhouse was part of his inheritance from his grandfather. He’s lived here for as long as he’s lived in Derdriu, nearly three years now, but in some ways it still doesn’t feel like home. The walls are still papered over with dark, lustrous floral prints; the furniture is the stiff brocade set that came with the house. Apart from a few newish appliances, the rest of the place is much the same: faded, dated, an inch thick with dust in some places. Claude feels like a nut rattling around a too-big husk most days, which is why he spends so much of his time at the office. _I wonder if Lorenz would let me stay with him… _He groans and rolls over, putting his face in an embroidered throw pillow.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes, distracting him before his thoughts can grow lonely and maudlin. He fumbles it out and lays it on the couch cushion next to his face to read it.

**[Lysithea] You’re a grown man, I’m not going to babysit you. Ask your boyfriend.**

Hang on. He squints at the screen and scrolls up. Ah.

**[Lorenz] Lysithea, may I have permission to go out for drinks with Ferdinand, or will it be seen as fraternizing? **

**[Lysithea] It sounds like fraternizing to me. Is that so terrible?**

**[Lorenz] You know what I mean. I don’t want anyone to think it’s a date. That I’m being “unfaithful.” **

**[Lysithea] Going out for drinks isn’t inherently a date.**

**[Lorenz] I would greatly appreciate a firm yea or nay, Lysithea.**

**[Lysithea] You’re a grown man, I’m not going to babysit you. Ask your boyfriend. **

So, the Prime Minister is in town a few days early. Claude thinks guiltily of his unfinished speech. Ferdinand had always been the better orator in their class, or at least the orator that Dr. Seteth preferred. Claude was too loose, too off the cuff. In school he’d liked to write out his speeches by hand, then cobble them up into notes that he stuffed haphazardly into his pockets and scattered across the lecture hall podium like the cut-up pieces of a newspaper article. He wasn’t much for rote memorization. And if he went a little off-book, who cared? He was better at speaking his mind than reading off a page.

Ferdinand, of course, never needed notes. Claude is still convinced the man has a photographic memory, not that he’s ever been able to find evidence of it. And he tried, the night before their debate in Dr. Hanneman’s ethics class. Would have succeeded, too, if Ferdinand’s creepy boyfriend hadn’t been lurking around the place like a bloody stormcloud…

_Bzzt._

Oh, right, the conversation he’s theoretically meant to be a part of.

**[Lorenz] Claude, my dearest, do you have any objections to the aforementioned drinks? You’re certainly welcome to join us, if you like, but Hilda informed me you only recently left the office.**

_My dearest_. Claude’s lip curls up despite himself as he hits _dial_.

“Lorenz speaking.”

“Hey there, _dearest_,” Claude drawls, and relishes the embarrassed sputtering that comes through the other end. “I can’t believe there’s already trouble in paradise, you tart.”

“Thus why I’m asking for permission,” Lorenz says, composing himself enough to ignore the jibe.

“I second Lysithea. You’re a grown man, you don’t need my _permission_ to do anything.”

Lorenz sighs into the speaker. “What would you say if you were really _were_ my partner, Claude? Give me that answer, and then perhaps I can better judge what to do.”

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it is,” Claude tells him, not unkindly, “but if you must know, I would be delighted for you to go out and have some fun. Cut a rug. Whatever. You work too hard, we’ve been over this.”

“I’m not the only one,” Lorenz says archly, but he sounds relieved. “I thank you for the straightforward answer. And my earlier offer stands. If you wish to _cut a rug_, as you say, you may meet us at the Wyvern’s Roost in half an hour.”

Claude furrows his brows into the couch cushion. “I don’t want to intrude on your… outing,” he says, reluctantly curling his tongue back against the word _date_. Lorenz wouldn’t find it funny.

“You would not be an intrusion, Claude.” His brisk tone dissolves somewhat as he adds, confessional, “I have informed Ferdinand of the nature of this… ruse. So you need not fear acting the part convincingly in front of him.”

“You _told—_”

“Before you get huffy with me,” Lorenz interrupts, “he guessed at it almost immediately. I’m sorry, but he knows me too well—and he knows that I would never keep such juicy personal information from him for long, let alone _five years_. I apologize for not discussing it with you first, but such is the nature of our relationship.”

“If Ferdinand knows, it’s safe to say von Vestra knows,” Claude sighs into the brocade, “and if von Vestra knows, Edelgard _definitely_ knows.”

“Is that so terrible?” Lorenz asks, sounding pinched. “They are all quite familiar with keeping their mouths shut on matters far more important than this.”

“I know, I know,” he soothes. “I’m just—it’s weird, all right? Having an entire branch of government know the truth about your fake boyfriend.”

Lorenz hums, and it’s not in disagreement. “Everything about this is _weird_.” He hesitates. “To be honest, I thought I would grow accustomed to it more quickly, but there seems to be more and more strangeness at every turn. Did you know I received _three_ offers from different companies to partner with their ad campaigns in the last two days?”

“_Really_?” Claude sits upright at this, miraculously rejuvenated. “Who, anyone good?”

“I cannot bring myself to say,” Lorenz sighs, somehow managing to sound both longsuffering and coy. Bastard. “Perhaps if you put a couple of drinks in me I will reveal them…”

“You’re not slick, Gloucester,” Claude tells him. He knuckles the bridge of his nose, smiling despite himself. “Fine, I’ll meet you. Can’t stand to sit around in this empty house anyway,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Lorenz makes an inquiring _come again? _sound in his throat. “Never mind. See you in a bit, Lorenz.”

“Indeed,” Lorenz says, far too pleased with himself, and hangs up.

><><

He takes a cab to the Roost, because it’s still too chilly in the evenings for his bike and he’s already sent Raph off home. The place is bustling despite it being the middle of the week, but Lorenz and Ferdinand _von Aegir_ are easy to find—he just follows his nose to the second floor where the pool tables are.

They’ve already been here a short while. Lorenz is pink in the face from wine, a charming trait he can’t avoid with his porcelain complexion, and Ferdinand—hardly changed at all from their school days, apart from longer hair and broader shoulders—is laughing as he leans over the green to line up his shot, sleeves rolled to the elbows and waistcoat hanging open. They’re both tipsy and delightfully rumpled, and for a moment Claude considers escaping before they notice him and making up some meagre excuse for his absence.

But then Lorenz looks up and catches sight of him, and the ridiculous grin on his face softens to something that makes Claude’s heart slam inconveniently against his ribs. _Damn it. _

“Claude! You made it.” Lorenz swans across the floor and loops his arm through Claude’s, bending slightly to brush his cheek to the top of his head. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“I am right on time, thanks,” Claude says, patting his hand. There’s hardly anyone else up here, just a few bodyguards tucked discreetly into corners, but the loft opens out over the dance floor and better to be safe than sorry. He leans up to kiss Lorenz’s cheek gently, purposefully, and ignores the way Ferdinand’s eyes glint at them conspiratorially from the pool table. “You _did_ say half an hour, remember?”

“Did I? Well, no matter, you’re here now.” Lorenz all but drags him over to where Ferdinand is leaning against his pool cue like it’s some kind of regimental halberd. “You remember Ferdie, of course.”

“Vividly.” Claude offers his hand and is promptly shaken to pieces by the force of Ferdinand’s eager grip. “It’s a delight to see you again.”

“Oh, so formal!” Ferdinand exclaims. “No need for that, my dear Claude. Save it for the gala.” He wrinkles his nose and takes up his cue again. “Now where was I…”

He lines up his shot again, one eye squinched shut, and Lorenz takes the opportunity to press a fresh glass of red into Claude’s hand. “Here. You’re falling behind, my dear.”

Claude coughs a little at the endearment and lifts it to his lips. “I thought you said…”

“Even so!” Lorenz says, turning even redder. “It’s only appropriate to keep up appearances, don’t you think?”

Claude hums vague agreement and tries not to enjoy the heat of Lorenz bleeding through his jacket. It’s true there are eyes everywhere—the Roost is fairly good about keeping paps out, which is why Lorenz and Claude and their group of friends prefers to do their drinking here. But if this whole situation has taught him anything, it’s that you can never trust someone to not be taking inadvisable photos with their phones and sending them to one’s parents unannounced.

The evening winds on pleasantly enough. Claude drinks slowly, but he’s not as accustomed to wine as to other spirits, and finds himself growing warm and languid as the hours pass, leaning into Lorenz a little more than strictly necessary and laughing a little too heartily for good manners. He isn’t _compromised_, just… tipsy. It’s nice. It’s been a while since he let himself unwind like this.

The only damper on the evening is, occasionally, Ferdinand. Not all the time—he is, as he has always been, a cheerful bugger and the smoothest conversationalist Claude has ever known (apart from himself, of course). And yet, every once in a while, he slips. A sideways glance not quite masked by the fall of his yellow-orange hair. A faint wrinkle in his brow that appears before smoothing away again, as if it had never been. He is utterly polite, and yet whenever Claude turns his back, he can’t help but feel the weight of the Prime Minister’s gaze on the nape of his neck like a brand.

At least Lorenz is clearly enjoying himself. Claude can’t remember the last time they went out like this, but he’s quite sure it’s been far too long since he’s seen Lorenz laugh so freely. He would like to think it’s due to his own presence, but he knows it’s likely more thanks to their Adrestian companion. Lorenz calls him _Ferdinand_ and gets _Gloucester_ and _dear boy_ in return, as though they’re fast friends—which they are, ostensibly, having attended the same prestigious boarding school for rich toffs throughout their teen years. And yet Claude can’t shake the feeling that he’s being weighed, measured, and found wanting. More than once, when Claude returns from fetching fresh drinks or doing a lap of the room to grease elbows, he has the distinct feeling that they’ve just been discussing him and have quickly switched the conversation to something tame as soon as he’s within earshot.

At some point during the evening Lorenz excuses himself to use the facilities, leaving Claude and Ferdinand alone on the rear veranda two floors up. It is here that gives the Wyvern’s Roost its name: a clear view of the city’s most pristine stretch of waterfront, looking out across Wyvern Bay. It’s a beautiful spot, and mostly deserted at the moment—it’s still a little too cold to be standing out here comfortably, but the wine is moving warmly through Claude’s veins and Ferdinand, he supposes, must be in a similar boat. Why else would he be standing so close, elbows nearly brushing as he rests his hands on the railing?

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Ferdinand says slyly, infuriatingly even-keeled despite the amount of wine he’s put away. Claude hums, unsure what to say, and gets a hearty clap on the back for his trouble. “Come now, we both know the score. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am of your willingness to help Lorenz carry this awful burden. If I had been in the position myself to take it on—but I was not, alas.”

“He would have done the same for me,” Claude says simply. “I could do no less.”

“You’re not wrong there. I’ve never known a more loyal man than he.” Ferdinand’s hand has not left his shoulder, a fact that becomes sharply undeniable when his grip tightens almost to the point of pain. “I do hope you appreciate him, Claude. He’s been through a great deal. He deserves to be cared for properly.”

Claude’s stomach twists, though he’s not quite sure why, and he forces up a thready laugh to try and break the tension. “This whole thing is a ruse, you know that, right?” he says, keeping his voice pitched low.

“I’m certain you’ve both agreed that it is,” Ferdinand replies evenly.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Ferdinand soothes. As if that explains _anything._ He withdraws his hand at last, but Claude can still feel that firm grip, as though an invisible hand is holding him fast to the railing, preventing his escape. “Just rest assured that if this ends poorly for him, I will know about it, and I will act in whatever way I see fit, with whatever resources are at my disposal.” He pauses a moment, as if to let the seriousness of the threat sink in before continuing. “Lorenz is my dearest friend, and I only want to see him happy.”

Claude shakes his head. “We’re in agreement on that, at least.”

“Good.” Ferdinand is all smiles again, as though nothing unsettling had passed between them. Claude tries not to shiver. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”

“I’m proud of him,” Claude adds after a moment. He returns his gaze to the bay, and the dark seam in the distance where the sea meets the ink-black sky. At his shoulder, Ferdinand hums agreement.

“Yes, as am I. We are _all _very proud of him.”

Lorenz returns a minute or so later to a much more subdued pair, and he doesn’t appear surprised when Ferdinand announces that he must return to his hotel “or I’ll be absolutely useless in the morning.” He shakes Claude’s hand firmly—very firmly—while maintaining direct eye contact, and kisses Lorenz on the cheek before departing. As soon as they’re alone, Claude lets out a loud sigh, shoulders slumping into a neutral posture for the first time all evening.

“What?” Lorenz asks, one eyebrow arched impressively. “Was he that terrible?”

“Not at all. It’s hard not to enjoy Ferdinand’s company.”

It’s not a _complete_ lie—he _did_ enjoy spending time with an old school chum in such an informal setting, and he bears no grudge against him for the shovel talk. Claude can hardly fault him for being concerned for Lorenz’s happiness.

“Did he say something to you?”

Claude opens his mouth and hesitates. To say the words “he told me not to break your heart” out loud feels farcical, even if it’s true. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says eventually. With a weary grunt, he tips his head to lean against Lorenz’s shoulder. He’s both warmer and more supportive than Claude anticipated.

“Claude? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Claude says tonelessly, too tired and too laced with good red wine to make the effort to lie convincingly.

Lorenz pats his upper back uncertainly. “Claude, I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this deflated.” He’s still pink in the cheeks, but he sounds steady, eyes umber-dark and brow rumpled with concern. “Whatever is bothering you, I hope you know you can confide in me. Whatever it is.”

“It’s nothing,” he insists, and this time he almost means it. “Nothing serious, anyway.”

“Well that’s a small comfort. Hopefully it will make it easier for you to lend me your worries.”

Claude gathers the tattered remnants of his wherewithal about him and straightens his shoulders, something like a smile affixed to his cheeks. “I’m just not looking forward to returning to an empty house, that’s all.”

Lorenz peers at him as though expecting another, darker answer to fall out of him. But when none is forthcoming he simply shakes his head, violet hair swinging, and says stoutly, “Well that is easily remedied. Spend the night with me.”

He can’t help himself—his eyebrow hike up toward his hairline and he grins mischievously at his friend. “How forward of you, Lorenz. I like it.”

Lorenz stares at him, unimpressed. “Need I remind you that we’re _dating_?” he says, even though they’re alone on the veranda in Ferdinand’s absence. “And all of that aside—don’t be ridiculous. I’m happy to have you over whenever you like. I don’t understand why you haven’t sold that musty old place yet.”

“I’ll get around to it,” Claude says, shoulders rounding as if to stave off further inquiry. “There’s a bit too much going on right now to worry about it. After election season, maybe.”

“Right.” Lorenz doesn’t look as though he believes him. Still, he offers his arm, the picture of poise despite the lingering flush of alcohol on his face, and his elbow is wiry and strong when Claude loops his own arm through it. A comforting bastion against the night. “Come on, then, before you grow any more maudlin. I’ve had a great deal too much wine to deal with your moods tonight.”

“_My_ moods?” Claude demands. “Takes one to know one.”

“Hmph! Too much wine indeed…”

><><

Claude wakes up bleary and dry-mouthed, feeling his own pulse like a sledgehammer behind his eyes. He squints his eyes open suspiciously. Despite the shades pulled down over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun still glares into the room like a beacon on a dark night, threatening to drill a hole straight through his skull. He mumbles a curse under his breath and rolls over.

And comes face to face with purple. Purple _hair_, to be precise, strewn across the pillow in every direction; and at its center, like the delicate stamen of a flower, is Lorenz’s face, slack and peaceful in repose.

Right. He’d come back to Lorenz’s place last night. He blinks, trying to orient himself. They’d sobered up a bit on the cab ride back, but then Lorenz had pulled out the Fraldarius Reserve and Claude’s memories after that are a bit… spotty. He does have a vague recollection of standing on the coffee table and attempting to drunkenly recite the Almyran national anthem, translated (poorly) into Fódlan Basic, but after that… nothing. Nothing between the bright peal of Lorenz’s laughter and now, laying next to him in bed, watching him sleep.

_You’re being a creep_, some part of Claude’s mind tells him, but he’s too hungover to care.

Lorenz is really very pretty when he’s not stressed. He’s an attractive person in general, of course, but right now, with his brow smooth and unfurrowed, lips soft and slightly curved like the arc of an unstrung bow, he could be royalty from a fairytale, waiting to be woken with a kiss.

As if summoned by Claude’s wayward thoughts, those long lavender eyelashes stir, and his lips part on a yawn, granting Claude a faceful of absolutely _wretched_ morning breath. The spell is broken, but he doesn’t really mind that much.

“Mnngh…” Lorenz says intelligently, squinting at him across the pillows. “Claude…?”

“How do you sleep without proper curtains?” Claude asks.

“I’m an early riser. Ugh.” Lorenz rubs his eyes and then just holds his hands over them as if to block out the daylight. “Time is it?”

“Dunno.” With great regret, Claude drags himself upright and finds his phone sitting on the bedside table next to him. Not plugged in, of course, but there’s a few drops of juice left in the battery to tell him it’s—“Eight forty-five.”

“_Goddess_.”

“Early riser, huh?” Claude flops back onto the pillow and groans at the jarring pain that echoes through his sinuses. “Fuck. I’m too old for this.”

“Agreed.”

Despite his obvious misery, Lorenz is a conscientious host. He leaves Claude languishing in his king-sized bed to start a pot of coffee, and lends him the use of his shower to rinse away the previous evening’s revelry. Thank goodness it’s one of his off days—if he were late to the office, Hilda would never let him forget it. Speaking of…

**[Hilda] I hear congratulations are in order. **

**[Claude] ????**

**[Hilda] Lys said u were out on the town last night. I’m glad you finally got out of that depressing house and had some fun. **

**[Claude] talk me up about it later, my head hurts too much right now**

**[Hilda] How did you sleep? Is Lorenz as cold as he looks? ;)**

**[Claude] Fuck off**

She sends him back kissy emojis in response, a whole string of them. He puts his phone face-down on the countertop and prays the battery dies soon.

“Feel free to stay as long as you like,” Lorenz says, swooping into the kitchen fully dressed in a three-piece suit, hair slightly damp and pulled into a little horsetail at his nape. He looks entirely too dapper and put-together after last night, and he beams when Claude says so. “That’s kind of you. Unfortunately I have a luncheon with some stakeholders today that can’t be moved, so I must leave you, but my home is your home.” He produces a spare set of keys from his pocket. “I’ll get you a keycard later, but in the meantime the silver key will get you into the elevator and the gold is for the front door if the guard isn’t there. I’ve informed them to let you in otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Claude says, staring down at the keys in his hand. Shiny and newly-minted, and a world of difference from the tarnished keys to his own place. There’s a third item on the ring as well: a little metal charm shaped like a rose. Lorenz’s signature.

“Use them whenever you need, whether I’m home or not. I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.”

To Claude’s utter surprise, Lorenz bends down and kisses the top of his head briefly before departing in a whirl of floral cologne. The tingling pressure of it seeps through his headache and lingers long after he’s gone.

_Lorenz isn’t cold at all_, he thinks, staring into his coffee cup. _No… he’s warm all over_. Warm in manner, friendly and accommodating, and warm in body, too. Claude hasn’t woken up so comfortable since he left Almyra.

He decides he won’t be telling Hilda that, after all.

><><

He sees Lorenz for another midday meal—too late to be lunch and too early to be dinner—and they text on and off, but apart from that Claude feels as though he barely sees his supposed _boyfriend_ in the week leading up to the charity gala. They are both terribly busy, Lorenz with work and Claude with campaign business, and though each of them burns liters of proverbial midnight oil fielding texts and emails from Lysithea, who continues to navigate the treacherous waters of the media circuit on their behalf, it often feels like Claude is in this endeavor entirely by himself.

It leaves him feeling off-balance as the gala approaches, which isn’t ideal. He’s not the only one speaking, but his speech is one of the longer ones, and while he usually enjoys public addresses, this one is proving a beast to wrangle into shape.

“One of these days you’re going to listen to me and just hire a writer or three,” Hilda says snippily the day before the gala, striding alongside him down the sidewalk as though her stiletto heels are jogging shoes. She has his rough draft open on her phone, but her screen is tilted just so to avoid him being able to read it. “This sentence doesn’t make sense—”

“It _does_ make sense, Hil…”

“It’s too convoluted, then. You’ll be out of breath by the time you find the end of it. Try again.”

She’s been shorter with him than usual lately, and he can’t really blame her. Things are heating up, politically, and the whole farce with Lorenz is just another small mountain of pressure and paperwork to sift through. He’s given up reading the release forms Lysithea sends him, just signs and sends them back in the same moment. Lorenz is paying her enough, he doubts she’s stupid enough to fuck him over.

That evening, he prints out the entire speech in double-space and lays it on the floor of his apartment, red pen in one hand and whiskey in the other. It’s a point of pride for him, writing his own speeches. He knows better than anyone what he wants to say, _how_ he wants to say it. The idea of passing off that messaging to someone else, even knowing he could make revisions as he liked, feels like passing off a newborn baby. All right, maybe that’s a bit extreme. It feels like… like handing over the keys of his bike to a stranger and trusting they won’t drive it into the scrap heap.

When the pages have been marked over with red to his satisfaction, he grabs his phone. He won’t bother Hilda with a recitation at this hour, but there _is_ someone who’s probably just as wide awake as he is.

“Claude,” Lorenz greets him after a mere two rings. Claude strains his ears for any hint of ambient noise, any clue as to where Lorenz is or what he’s doing, but there’s nothing. “Everything all right?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s great.” He knocks back a bit of whiskey to whet his throat. “Are you, uh. Busy?”

“I’m just at home,” Lorenz says, which isn’t really an answer. He sounds tired, but not irritated, which is more than he can say for Hilda; so far, Lorenz is pulling ahead.

“I wondered if you could… help me with something.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t say yes just yet,” Claude laughs. He rubs the stubble on his cheek with an open hand. “I’m, ah, doing some speech prep for tomorrow. If you have ten minutes, would you mind lending an ear?”

“My offer stands,” Lorenz says. That simple agreement squeezes some tender place inside Claude’s chest and he smiles like a fool at the papers spread out in front of him. “Would you like me to come over? Or shall I listen from here?”

“Oh, you don’t have to go anywhere. You don’t even have to give me feedback if you don’t want, it just… helps to have an audience. You can just put me on speaker and fall asleep to my dulcet tones, if you like.”

“I would never,” Lorenz scoffs, but he sounds like he’s smiling. “Just give me a moment.”

“Sure.”

Claude does a lap around the sitting room as he waits, pen tapping restlessly against his thigh. When Lorenz gives him the go-ahead, he puts his phone on speaker and tucks it into his breast pocket, launching into his address.

It’s not his smoothest delivery. Not because Lorenz interrupts him, but because Claude keeps stopping and retracing his steps, rewording things as he says them out loud and hears the dissonance between phrase and meaning.

Halfway through, though Lorenz has hardly said a word, something _clicks_. Claude falls to his knees on the musty carpet and begins scribbling madly across the pages, scratching out whole paragraphs and moving sentences around as he mumbles under his breath. The laid-out speech looks like a warzone when he’s done, but it _makes sense_—and what’s more, it moves quicker on the tongue, the pieces joining together in his head like a well-formed puzzle.

“Claude…?” The voice comes through tinny and unsure, and Claude realizes he’d forgotten Lorenz was even on the line.

“Lorenz! Sorry, I got—I was fixing stuff. I think I’ve got it now.”

“Do you need any more assistance?” He sounds amused, thank goodness. “I have to say, what I did hear was quite good, though I have a feeling that wasn’t all of it.”

“No, not quite… but I won’t keep you up any later.” Claude glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and winces. “You should get to bed, it’s nearly midnight.”

“Oh, is that all?” he asks airily. “I’ve got a few more hours in me yet, unfortunately.”

“Hmm.” Claude sits back on his heels and surveys the damage. He should really compile his notes more succinctly now that he’s got a handle on it, but the manic energy has faded, leaving him wrung-out and exhausted. Maybe he’ll take a half-day tomorrow, polish up the rest of it before the gala… “Hey Lorenz?”

“Yes, Claude?”

“What do you think about stopping over at mine tomorrow afternoon to get ready? Get our heads in the game and all that. You can even listen to me give this speech properly, if you like.”

“I’d be delighted to,” Lorenz says without hesitation. “Are you sure it’s helpful…?”

“Oh, extremely. Better than staring at myself talking in a mirror any day.”

Lorenz laughs, an elegant little chortle that Claude can’t help smiling along to. “I find _that_ hard to believe. You were always fond of admiring yourself, Claude. But yes, I’d be happy to be your sounding board if you would find it helpful.”

Claude rolls his eyes. As if _Lorenz_, of all people, could ever be accused of poor self-esteem. “Tomorrow, then. Don’t forget to sleep in the meantime, babe.”

Lorenz coughs out something indecipherable, and Claude hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~sorry for all the weird formatting for texts, I can never decide how I want to do it lol. and thank you SO much for your kind words, I've been a little uncertain embarking on a new long-term project but everyone has been so kind!! ;O; i really appreciate it! <3
> 
> ~thank you also to @bohemienne for letting me borrow the comparison of lorenz's voice to calligraphy hehe
> 
> ~i'm on twitter at @rachebones, feel free to say hi :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you trying to _bait_ me into kissing you?”
> 
> “Is it working?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty ahead in my wordcount goals, so I decided to post a day early lol. WARNING for alcohol/weed consumption and smoking in the beginning of this chapter, because college. Do not try this at home.

_Nine years ago, Garreg Mach University_

Saturday, half past midnight. From the roof, the moon was full and silver in the sky, like a sand dollar gleaming up from the shallows of a tidal pool. Lorenz watched it grow bigger and bigger, an enormous eye peering down at him as if to ask: _what are you doing up here? _

“None of your business,” he said, and flicked a speck of ash from his lip. The cherry-red glow at the end of his neatly-rolled cigarette seemed to blur and stretch before his eyes like taffy. He wasn’t sure if it was from the edibles or the tears that stubbornly refused to fall.

From behind came the faint screech of metal on metal: the trap door being lifted. Lorenz tensed and stubbed his cigarette on the rough cement roof, holding perfectly still. Maybe if he was quiet and stayed where he was, splayed on his back like a beached starfish, whoever it was wouldn’t see him.

“Lorenz?” whispered a voice. “You up here?”

From below, he could still hear the rhythmic thump of Hilda’s dorm party in full swing, but the scrape of worn-out trainers against cement was louder yet. He squinted up, watching as the moon’s gravid light was cleft in twain by Claude’s silhouette.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

“What do you want,” Lorenz said, mulish. He’d been having a perfectly nice time up here by himself with one of Sylvain’s noxious clove cigarettes, napping off the high of the edibles Mercedes had brought and wallowing in the sky’s gratuitous embrace; the last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by Claude von Riegan, of all people, even if… even if things had shifted between them, recently. The ground beneath him suddenly felt unsteady.

“Just checking. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t gone and fallen off the roof.” With an _oomph_ and a long, languid sigh, Claude dropped to the roof beside him, knees to his chest and a half-empty bottle of something hanging from one hand. He wiggled it over Lorenz’s face, snickering when Lorenz batted it away. “I brought a presennnnt…”

“I want to be alone,” Lorenz snapped. He rubbed his eyes and told himself the dampness was from the smoke, still hovering thick and cloud-like around them. “Please,” he added belatedly.

“Y’know, I would normally be happy to,” Claude said, practically humming a tune in the back of his throat, “but a little birdie told me you might need some company.” He took a swig from whatever was in the bottle, coughed, and held it out to Lorenz. “Here. It’s good.”

“_Who_ told you?” Lorenz asked suspiciously. He did not take the proffered bottle.

“Mari,” Claude admitted after a moment or two. Lorenz felt the anger bleed out of him at once. He hated having his baggage dragged out into the light, but if Marianne was confiding in someone she trusted… that was good enough for him. “She’s worried about you.”

Lorenz finally gave in, sitting up and grabbing the bottle that still dangled at his side. “I’m not about to walk off the edge of the roof, if that’s what you mean.” He peered at the label. “Is this…”

“Fraldarius Reserve, yeah. Nicked it off Felix before he left.” Both hands now free, Claude leaned back on his palms, legs bent and feet propped up on the narrow lip at the roof’s flat edge. His knees fell wide and inviting to either side. Lorenz looked away and took a swig.

“He’s going to skin you when he finds out,” he croaked when the burn in his throat had settled.

“Why? Who’s to say he’s finding out?”

“Point.” Lorenz ran his thumb along the wet bottle rim, watching it glisten in the moonlight. The wind ruffled his collar a little and he shivered and remembered why he’d been lying down. “Should I be drinking this after the brownies…?”

“Eh. Maybe not too much of it. But you’ll be fine.” Claude reached out and, unprecedented, put a sturdy hand on Lorenz’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Lorenz said bitterly. He couldn’t bring himself to shrug him off. “I’m sure you’d have more fun downstairs with everyone else. I know very well that I’m not anyone’s first choice of company.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Claude asked. He gave Lorenz one more squeeze, warm and rough and a little clumsy, like he wasn’t accustomed to bestowing casual gestures of affection, and withdrew his hand. “So right now you are. Someone’s first choice, I mean.”

_That would be a first from you_, Lorenz thought, but he kept it to himself.

“Cold up here,” Claude said after a bit, when the silence had grown heavy and cloying. He shivered exaggeratedly and shuffled a few inches over, so that they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, his arm a long line of heat down Lorenz’s side. Lorenz flinched away and stopped, unsure where to go, what to do.

“Have a light?” he asked when Claude made no move to pull away.

Claude made a startled sound in his throat but fished a lighter from his pocket, held it steady while Lorenz relit his cigarette. “Where’d you get that?”

“Sylvain.” His lungs were already crackled and coarse from the half of it he’d smoked before, and with the ache of good brandy in his gullet he found himself coughing after the first drag. He turned his head aside and held it out. “Here.”

Claude took it in obedient silence, and a moment later Lorenz heard the muffled cough behind his arm. He smiled to himself and stared up, up at the moon still observing them with its pockmarked face.

“Do you ever… think you know someone?” Lorenz said slowly. The stars winked at him from the depths of space as if to lend him courage. “And then you find out they’re someone else entirely?”

“Sure.” Claude blew a thin stream of smoke into the air and exhaled the rest through his nostrils like an indolent dragon. “Myself, for one.”

Lorenz’s brain hiccuped on the concept and then settled again, a rock skipped inexpertly across still water. “I… I think I know what you mean.”

Claude waved a hand. “Yeah, but we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about _you_.”

“Are we?”

“If you want to be.” He passed back the cigarette and watched Lorenz drag the pungent smoke into his lungs. “I think it would be good for you. But you can tell me to fuck off, if you want.”

“Already tried that.”

“Ha! Guess you did.”

Lorenz coughed a bit, watched the cherry wink dangerously close to his fingertips. He thought briefly about hunting down Sylvain to ask for another—but his head was spinning, a little, and between the cigarette and the bottle between his legs he didn’t think he had the wherewithal to stand.

“I hate my fucking dad,” he said suddenly, the words pulled out of him like tar. His throat burned, his mouth, his lips. His fingers. He cursed and dropped the cigarette butt on the roof, watched it hiss against the damp cement and go dark.

“I’m sorry,” Claude ventured. He gave a quick, hoarse little laugh. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say the word _fuck_ before.”

“He deserves it,” Lorenz said grimly. He had the bottle in a stranglehold, he realized. He took one last sip for courage and shoved it into Claude’s waiting hand. “I looked up to him for so long, you know? I thought he was…” His eyes burned now, too, and he wondered idly if it were possible to spontaneously combust from anger and grief. “I thought he was a good man. Distant, maybe. But not…”

_Not complete scum_. He spared an aching thought for his mother, who had seen the signs far sooner and filed for divorce when Lorenz was only three. There had been no custody battle—Count Gloucester had told his son that it was because his mother didn’t want him anymore. Now Lorenz wondered if he had lied about that, too.

“I’m… lucky, I guess,” Claude said after a while, when it became apparent that Lorenz had nothing more to say on the subject. “My old man… both my parents, really, are good people. I think. But… I know what it’s like to not see eye to eye.”

“I’m quite certain that if my father and I stood side by side and looked in the same direction, he’d be looking at the ground and I’d be looking at the sky.” Lorenz rubbed traitorous moisture from his eyes and dropped his hands in his lap. He wished he still had the cigarette, if only to have something to do with his hands. Instead he was defenseless, exposed, when Claude slid nearer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“He sounds like a right prick,” Claude said firmly. “But you’re not him. You can be something else, Lorenz.”

“Like what?” Lorenz whispered.

“Whatever you want to be. You can be _you_.”

Lorenz briefly entertained a fantasy of resting his head on Claude’s shoulder, so broad and sturdy against his own. Instead he brought his knees to his chest and laid his head against them, limbs tightly knotted against the cold, against the soft warmth Claude was extending.

Above them, the moon grew small and sharp and bright, and then winked out entirely, leaving them in the dark.

><><

_Present day, the von Riegan townhouse_

When Lorenz arrives at Claude’s home, the hour is already growing late. The gala doesn’t begin until six, so they have an hour or so to freshen up before departing, but the heavy clouds above rebut the thin remains of daylight and cast a gloomy pall over the entire city. New spring buds curl temperamentally along their branches, liable to drop in a fit of pique at the chill in the air as Lorenz eats up the front walk with his long legs and raps on the front door. Once. Twice.

The door is wrenched open suddenly and Claude stands there, a bit breathless and pink in the face. “Hey! Sorry, I was upstairs—come on in.”

Lorenz does so, biting his tongue. Claude is still in his shirtsleeves, hair unruly and dripping water onto the towel slung over his shoulders. And, as ever, _unfairly_ handsome.

“Claude,” he greets, shrugging his coat off delicately, “I see you have yet to do any… redecorating.”

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll get around to it.” Claude skirts the heavy clawfoot sofa in the darkened living room and pushes into the kitchen with a _squeak_ of the swinging saloon-style doors. “There’s just so much to do, all the time, everywhere…”

His voice fades as Lorenz drifts into the living area, eyes alighting on every half-remembered detail. It’s much the same as it was when he was last here a year or so ago, helping stuff envelopes in the early stages of Claude’s campaign. The same old teakwood sofa set, the same Dagdan rug underfoot, the same drab wallpaper climbing all the way from the dusty wainscoting to the hand-carved trim that borders the ceiling. It’s a beautiful room, or would be with a bit of polish and retouching—in a museum. Even with all the little details that mark the place as lived-in (the sock balled up at the end of the couch is a charming touch), it doesn’t suit Claude at all.

Speaking of. Claude is still talking, but it carries that idle, cheerful tone that means he doesn’t really require a captive audience. Lorenz picks his way through the room, unhurried. In his head he’s doing renovation: peel the wallpaper up, refinish the floors, put that awful sofa in storage or donate it to an antiques collector. It’s just one of many Riegan relics that still grace the townhouse, even more than a decade after the Duke’s passing. No doubt _someone_, somewhere, would take interest in such things.

Lorenz turns to enter the kitchen, picking up the tail end of Claude’s ramblings—something about Hilda’s attire for the evening, and the acquisition thereof—and draws up short, his eye catching on the mantlepiece. The hearth is far too grandiose for such a narrow space, better suited to a dining area or perhaps a modest ballroom, but it’s what rests on the mantle that draws him in: picture frames, of varying sizes, clustered in a little group like travelers united against a gale.

Lorenz links his hands behind his back and leans closer. They aren’t any of the late Duke’s pictures, as he had first thought; the man boasted an impressive collection of oil portraits, though most of them hang in the upstairs hall, staring forebodingly down at anyone who dares to pass. Instead he finds himself looking at a group shot of their fraternity, taken on graduation day. They were all in their black robes, a yellow sash denoting Claude’s position as Valedictorian of the College of Political Sciences. A younger version of Lorenz stood beside him, making a disapproving face as Claude and a few others jointly lifted the Crown Prince of Faerghus into their arms like a blue-trussed pig for ready roasting. His violet hair was shorter then, barely brushing his shoulders, and his younger self looks… happy, despite the put-upon irritation. Lorenz bites back a smile and glances at the other portraits.

There is one of Duke von Riegan after all, a formal black and white shot taken in his Roundtable regalia, and beside that a candid print of a man and a woman embracing on a beach. The man has a full beard and a wide, irrepressible grin; woman wears a smaller but equally mischievous smile that glows through familiar sea-green eyes. He's seen her before, he thinks, although only in pictures when he was in school studying Fodlan politics. _Claude’s parents, then? That must be his father._

The last photo is the smallest, three inches tall and tucked into the seam between frame and glass of the von Riegans on holiday. It looks like an old primary school portrait; the child pictured is grinning, gap-toothed, with a mass of curly brown hair and the same green eyes as the woman, done up in a pink ribbon to match their powder-pink polo shirt.

“Hideous, wasn’t I?” Claude says, materializing out of nowhere at his elbow. Lorenz jumps straight into the air and _harrumphs_ afterward to cover it, smoothing down his shirt.

“You scared the life out of me,” Lorenz mutters. He accepts the glass of cognac Claude offers him in compensation. “Ah… I apologize for prying…”

“It’s not prying, they’re out on the mantlepiece for anyone to see.” Claude _tinks_ their glasses together and takes a sip. He’s shed the damp towel and his shirt collar is pressed flat, the top few buttons open down the front to expose a few licks of dark brown hair. His throat bobs as he swallows, fragile and warm. Lorenz looks away.

“You were an adorable child,” he says instead of something more embarrassing.

“So not much has changed,” Claude laughs. Lorenz rolls his eyes.

“Quite.” He mulls a question over in his head and decides to ask if before he loses his nerve. “Are those you parents?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot you’ve never met them—they don’t come to Leicester much.” Claude adjusts the frame in question, expression fond but sombre as he examines the faces therein. “They prefer to stay in Almyra, where it’s warm year-round.”

“You must not see them very often,” Lorenz ventures. Claude, as ever, is difficult to read, even without the perpetual cheery mask in place, and he can’t quite tell if his friend is saddened by the prospect or simply thoughtful. “Do they know…”

“What? Oh, about… us?” Claude shakes his head. “I mean, they know the media story, of course.” His mouth flickered in a half-smile that Lorenz is _mostly_ sure is genuine. “But, ah. We don’t keep in touch very frequently, so the idea of a secret paramour isn’t really out of the question.” He claps Lorenz cheerfully on the shoulder. “But that’s enough of that. C’mon, I had Hilda drop your suit off here, everything’s upstairs.”

Conversation over, then. Lorenz spares one more glance for little Claude, round-cheeked and precocious, and turns to follow the current model up the stairs.

At least Claude’s room is somewhat more… homey. The bed is rumpled and unmade, piled high with pillows and throws, and there’s a very pretty woven rug that takes up most of the floor, hiding the timeworn floorboards from view. Lorenz hovers in the doorway, a little unsure, as Claude disappears into the walk-in closet and begins rummaging. “Bath is all yours, if you want it!” he calls over his shoulder. Lorenz takes the out for what it is and escapes.

He has no reason to be this antsy. He’s breezed through a hundred functions just like this in his lifetime, even before graduating and sliding into a premade role in marketing and development at Gloucester Tech. And yet…

He confronts his own reflection as he washes his hands. He’d showered at home and dried his hair properly with a spritz of leave-in conditioner, so it’s full and shiny, smelling faintly of rose oil where it lays against his cheek. He runs damp hands over it, flattening it slightly. Too pretty. Too extravagant. Too _much_.

There’s a text message sitting in his pocket that he’s been trying not to think about all day. He should tell Claude about it, probably—had promised Lysithea he would. She had thought it proper to tell him in person, first, that his father had hired a fucking _private investigator_ to look into the matter of his son’s “indiscretions.”

She has no hard evidence, nothing they can bring before a court of law, and Lorenz doesn’t think he would want to do that anyway. His father would only wallow in the attention like a pig in slop, and Lorenz already has more media attention than he knows what to do with. All he can do is pretend everything is normal; pretend he doesn't know that there could be eyes on him _and_ Claude at any given moment. Pretend his father isn’t trying to dig into his private life to unearth it before a thousand grinning spectators for the sheer thrill of throwing his own son to the dogs.

A gentle knock comes at the door, dragging him from his grim thoughts. “Hey Lorenz? I’ve got your suit here, if you want it.”

“Come in.” Lorenz smoothes his shirt down again anxiously, though it hardly needs it. It’s a smooth, velvety purple-black, a bit at odds with his casual slate-grey slacks, but the rest of the ensemble—freshly cleaned and pressed thanks to Hilda—will pull it all together.

Claude enters, garment bag in hand. He’s still in shirtsleeves himself, though he’s at least put on his tuxedo trousers and pointy black shoes. They’re a bit old-fashioned, but they suit him nonetheless, a dapper gentleman tripping lightly out of the pages of a vintage magazine. “Everything good?” Claude asks, catching his eye in the mirror. “You look a little… frazzled.”

“Do I?” Lorenz says brightly. “It’s all right, I’ll settle in a moment. Just some mild nerves. This _is_ our first official event as a couple, after all.”

“True.” He hangs the garment bag on a hook and unzips the side, handing Lorenz the suit piece by piece. Lorenz blushes a little as he drops trou, but Claude is too busy finagling with the black bowtie hanging round his shoulders to pay him any mind. “Listen, Lorenz, about that. I’ve been thinking… and you can say no, if you want, I won’t be upset…”

“Ask,” Lorenz says, reaching for him before he can make any more of a mess. He picks apart the half-hearted knot Claude had made of the black silk and begins anew, all his focus bent to the task.

“It’s just… well, like you said, it’s our first public appearance at something like this… something more than just a cafe or a restaurant. People will expect us to be… affectionate. Not to excess, but, y’know.” He tips his chin back a bit, and Lorenz can feel the nervous flex of his throat against his knuckles as Claude swallows. “I was just thinking, it would be a bit awkward if some photographer asked us to pose for a photo, or we needed to kiss for a toast or something, and we hadn’t even had any practice.”

Lorenz finishes the bow and lays his hands on Claude’s shoulders, finally looking into his face. His eyes are shimmering agate, flicking back and forth between Lorenz’s own nervously, and yet there’s a wrinkle of determination between his brows, ready to take the weight of his rejection. “You want to practice… kissing.”

“Well, sure, if you like,” Claude says in an easy rush, as though the idea had been Lorenz’s all along. “Maybe a little light hand-holding.” He wiggles his eyebrows, all cleverness—but Lorenz had seen the brief glimpse of nerves beneath, and he knows better than to fall for that face. “Like I said,” Claude adds quickly when Lorenz says nothing, “if you’d rather not we certainly don’t hav—”

“All right.”

Claude blinks. “All right?”

“As I said.” Lorenz jerks his chin clumsily, well aware he’s being stiff and overly formal, but unable to help himself. He learned his highbrow manners at his nanny’s knee, and even now they’re a comfort to fall back on, a center he gravitates toward when north is uncertain.

Claude licks his lips, smiling very slightly, and puts his hands on Lorenz’s waist beneath his jacket. “You’re going to have to lean down, I’m afraid, you great stork.”

Lorenz huffs. “Not my fault you’re… what is it Sylvain used to say? Vertically challenged?”

“I’m perfectly average, thanks.” Claude cocks a grin at him, thumbs pressing warm indents into the fabric of his waistcoat. Lorenz feels his heart slam against his ribs unkindly. “So? Or have you lost your nerve?”

“Are you trying to _bait_ me into kissing you?”

“Is it working?”

That’s just it—it _is_ working. Despite himself, Lorenz feels a flush of warmth creeping beneath his collar, and he gives Claude’s shoulders a little squeeze to stabilize himself. He’s right: Lorenz is going to have to be the one leaning down, initiating… whatever this is. The anxious flutter in his belly has become a heavy stone, weighing him down like an anchor. His eyes fall to Claude’s lips. It’s not the first time he’s thought about kissing them, yet none of his imaginings were ever quite like this.

_To hell with it_, he thinks, and leans down to meet him halfway.

Claude is smiling when he kisses him. Despite the slight awkwardness of the initial act—he misjudges the angle and their noses bump before he can correct it—Lorenz is put immediately at ease by that small detail. He withdraws slightly to apologize, but Claude chases him, clearly not satisfied with such a chaste brush of lips. Lorenz softens, relaxes into it, as his nerves melt away like butter in the sun.

Surely a kiss or two is enough “practice” to be getting on with, but they are both slow to break apart. Instead Lorenz finds himself sliding his hands along Claude’s shoulders until they cradle his neck instead, rooting himself in place as Claude teases his lower lip with his tongue. Claude’s hands move in answer, sliding up and around to rub his back. He tastes like cognac; he smells, this close, like warm cedar and clove. Lorenz shrugs off the vestiges of his embarrassment and licks into his mouth, relishing the slight hum that manifests at the back of Claude’s throat. His tongue is warm and wet and welcoming, eager even, matched by the hitch of his breath, the warm nudge of his nose to Lorenz’s cheek.

They’re both breathing hard when they finally part. Lorenz doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know he’s red as a beet. He’s placated by the fact that Claude is flushed as well, though it’s less obvious on his darker skin, only looking vaguely sunburnt on his cheekbones and across the bridge of his nose. His lips are still damp and slightly puffy, pink in the lights over the mirror. Lorenz can’t tear his eyes away.

Claude clears his throat and steps back, offering an easy smile as he rubs the back of his neck. “Well. That’s that over with.”

“Right.” _Over with. Done. Ice broken, contract signed, now we needn’t think about it again. _Lorenz turns away to fix his hair and tie in the mirror, and tries not to think about the heat of Claude’s hands still bleeding through his waistcoat like an ember not quite bursting in to flame.

><><

“Lorenz, drink this,” Hilda says, pushing a small plastic cup in his hand. He takes it without thinking but pauses before bringing it to his lips.

“Why?”

“Because you look like you need it.” Subtly, with a strange maternal flair, she pulls him aside and stashes him in the forgiving shade of a potted plant. “You looked amazing on the red carpet, for what it’s worth.”

“From you, it’s worth its weight in gold,” he says, drawing on the gilded thread of chivalry always running through him, no matter how harried or ill at ease he feels. He sips from the glass and, finding it sweet and pungent, swallows the rest in one go. “Port?”

“They’re having a tasting laid out. I snitched one for you.” She pats the front of his suit, where his boutonniere is already beginning to sag, and reaffixes the pin deftly. “How are you feeling?”

Lorenz takes a breath and takes stock. A bit tingly in the feet from taking a certified _age_ to walk from one end of the carpet to the other, Claude hanging off his arm the whole time; head pounding, throat only recently whetted; stomach faintly disrupted but not quite at the cusp of mutiny yet. “I’ve been better. But not bad.”

“Good. Take a breath or two.” She glances around, but the flow of the rich and famous has mostly passed them by apart from a few stragglers, and they go unnoticed without the trigger happy flashbulbs of the press hemming them in from all sides.

“What about Claude?”

“He’ll be fine, he’s conferring with the event coordinator about tonight’s schedule.” She smooths the front of her pale pink skirts, gauzy and layered as they fall to the floor from a snug waistline. “Just find him whenever you’ve gathered yourself, he’ll be in the main room.”

Lorenz takes a moment, feeling behind him for the steadiness of the cool marble wall. The museum is familiar to him, having been a popular spot for biannual trips with his governess when her young charge grew too antsy and energetic for at-home instruction. He tries to take comfort in that, despite never having attended after hours dressed in his best and waiting at any moment for some empty suit to jump out of the shadows and yell _liar!_

“Why are you doing this?” he asks as Hilda continues to loiter, blocking him from the view of any passers-by.

“Doing what?”

He shrugs, gestures vaguely around the arms of the potted tree. “Standing guard.”

“It’s what I _do_.”

“Yes, for Claude. You aren’t on my payroll—I think.”

“Not yet.” Her perfectly lined lips quirk up on one side, a terrifying mimic of her employer’s same expression. “I talked you into this whole thing, didn’t I? It would be terribly rude of me to just abandon you to the wolves. And besides… you’re my friend, Lorenz.” She reaches out and squeezes his hand, which is cool and clammy. “Also I told Claude I would make sure you got to your seat without fainting, so.”

“There it is,” he murmurs, but he’s soothed nonetheless. He squeezes her hand and releases it to tuck an errant strand of hair behind his ear. “Thank you, Hilda. I think I’m better now.”

It isn’t a complete lie—he _is_ feeling better, marginally. But more than that, he fears being seen in a shadowy corner with his supposed boyfriend’s pretty PA, so he chivvies them out into the main hall and squares his shoulders. “I’m going to go find Claude. Please, don’t feel like you need to babysit me any further tonight. You should get to have a little fun yourself.”

“Oh, I _will_, don’t you worry about that.” She winks, winding a long pink strand of hair around her finger, and flounces off, skirts sighing against the marble floor. Lorenz watches her go before turning to glance longingly across the way to where a half-open door leads onto a balcony overlooking the central gardens. It’s a beautiful display, even at night, and he’s sorely tempted by the dark and quiet. He could hide there in the early spring chill and never have an unwanted pair of eyes raking him from head to toe ever again.

But he should really get to the main room. The sea of people drifts back to him on waves of muffled sound, and he can smell whatever hors d’oeuvres are being circulated for their consumption, tantalizing and salty-sweet. His stomach, just beginning to settle again, perks up in interest. With a sigh, he turns away from the balcony and follows in Hilda’s footsteps.

“Psst! Hey, Lorenz!”

He draws up short, neck prickling; but when he turns and sees the two people approaching from down the hall, all the tension leaves him in a rush and he smiles sincerely for the first time all evening. “Margrave. Ser Felix.” He bows deeply. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Oh goddess, don’t call me that!” Sylvain laughs, sweeping him up in a one-armed hug. He’s even taller and broader than he’d been at school, if possible, and Lorenz finds himself staggering a little under his exuberance, like a child faced with an overly friendly golden retriever. “It’s good to see you, Lorenz. You’re looking well.” His eyebrows jump suggestively as he withdraws for a more sedate handshake. “Life out of the closet is agreeing with you, then?”

“Sylvain,” Felix scolds. “Behave.” He’s changed, too, if only in that he carries his shoulders a little less stiffly and scowls a little less deeply than he had during their school days. His grip on Lorenz’s hand is firm and uncompromising as they shake in greeting. “Ignore him, he’s been pregaming.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Lorenz sighs. The half-glass of cognac he had at Claude’s doesn’t count—he’d been more thrown off-balance by the kiss than the alcohol. “I hear congratulations are in order, by the way.”

“That’s right.” Felix’s smile is small but sincere. “I’ve somehow convinced this idiot to let me make an honest man out of him.”

“I beg your pardon, _I_ was the one who got down on one knee!” Sylvain yelps.

“Yes, and you forgot whatever silly speech you’d tried to memorize and left me to do all the heavy lifting, as usual.” Felix doesn’t sound nearly as put out by the prospect as his words suggest. Not much has changed in _that_ respect, then. “Congratulations to you too, Gloucester, although a bit belated.” He glances at Lorenz studiously from beneath his lashes—his face is friendly enough, but Lorenz can’t help feeling like those eyes are dissecting him, twin prongs at the end of a lance twisting and prodding between his carefully-constructed plates of armor. “We were all a bit put out that neither of you breathed a word for so long.”

“Unfortunately we did not have the luxury,” Lorenz lies, though the regret in his voice is very real, if born more from regret at his own faithlessness than any manufactured five-year affair. “Or at least, we thought we didn’t.”

“I want to hear _all_ the sordid details,” Sylvain says, grinning as he claps Lorenz on the back. “But first, food. I put off lunch to save room and I’m bloody _starving_.”

With Felix and Sylvain flanking him like bodyguards, Lorenz settles into himself, teasing out the part of him that enjoys these sorts of functions and wrapping it around himself like a cloak. He can feel his face setting into shape like drying plaster; it makes it easier to conjure answers to Sylvain’s questions, despite the fact that his eyes are elsewhere. They wander the crowd separate from the movement of his mouth, flitting here and there—looking for what, he’s not sure. Not Claude. Someone else.

He relaxes by inches as the evening progresses. He’s seated at a table with Claude, of course, and a few other couples he’s only passingly familiar with. And, to his great pleasure, Ferdinand and his plus one for the evening, Dorothea Arnault, seated to Lorenz’s left. He’d known her in school, of course, despite their different majors—anyone who was anyone knew Dorothea, and if they didn’t they quickly made it a point to rectify the situation. Though she came from humble beginnings, her wit was as sharp as a rapier, a match for her musical talent. Between tours with her band she retreated to her palatial apartments in Enbarr to write songs and achieve other, more journalistic pursuits. As a result Lorenz hasn’t seen much of her since graduation, and so dinner passes rather pleasantly in good company, with much to catch up on.

He’s so preoccupied with Dorothea’s latest story about a mishap with the tour bus that he fails to notice Claude growing quieter as dinner draws to a close. Not until Ferdinand leans across him slightly and says, with polite interest, “You’ve gone awfully quiet over there, von Riegan. Are you planning something dastardly?”

Lorenz titters at the thought—he has vague recollections of Claude being a very intense member of the campus chess club for a semester and a half, earning himself the nickname _the Master Tactician_—but when he turns to look, Claude’s smile is small and strained.

“Nothing so evasive, I assure you. I’m simply captivated by Miss Arnault. You are quite a masterful storyteller, Dorothea.”

Some of the good humor Lorenz managed to conjure over the course of the evening is whittled away by the pinched expression on Claude’s face. When Ferdinand turns back to his guest, Lorenz does not turn with him, instead dropping his hand beneath the table to touch Claude’s knee lightly. “All right?”

“Fine.” Claude speaks lowly, chin turned in his direction but eyes bright and upturned, scanning the room. It’s still quite noisy, rife with conversation and the clatter of cutlery on china despite the high, vaulted ceiling. His next words are almost lost to the din as he murmurs, “Just a little nervous.”

“Whatever for?” He leans in a little closer, catching a gentle whiff of Claude’s cologne. He remembers smelling it clearly when they kissed in Claude’s bathroom, and warmth rises to his cheeks.

“I don’t know. The speech, maybe.” He shrugs, pasting on a caricature of an easy smile. But Lorenz knows him too well to take it at face value. “It’s weird. I’ve done this before, I just…”

“Just?”

“I don’t know. I have a weird feeling that I’m being watched. Silly, right, of course I am—everyone’s always watching everyone else at these things. I’m about to get up on the podium and be watched by every person here.” He shrugs a shoulder, ignorant of the icy chill spreading through Lorenz’s gut, the way his last bite of food turns to ash on his palate. “It’s fine. It’ll pass.”

Lorenz withdraws his hand and folds his napkin up, resting it on the edge of the table. _I was right. I wasn’t just being paranoid. Someone is here, keeping an eye on us…_

“Claude,” he begins, and stops, unsure how much he can safely say in public. He should have talked to him about it in the car ride over, or in Claude’s townhouse—but he’d been a coward, and a flustered fool besides after that kiss. Damn him!

But whatever he means to say is drained away as Claude slips from his chair and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Gotta go. Catch you from the stage.”

The speech. Of course. Just as planned. Still, Lorenz feels his heart stammer worriedly in his chest, and he reaches out instinctively for Claude’s hand. “Good luck, my dear,” he says, and presses a kiss to Claude’s knuckles.

For a split second, Claude looks surprised—then he wipes it away in a studied motion, as if he’s practiced the same transition in a mirror a hundred times until it was perfectly polished. He smiles and leans down to kiss Lorenz’s cheek, lingering, familiar. When he pulls away, the spot he kissed is ever so slightly damp.

“How sweet,” Ferdinand murmurs on his other side as Claude disappears to await his cue. “Like you were made for each other.”

Lorenz sends a glare his way, briefly, and snorts at the kick he received in return beneath the table.

><><

He hates to admit it, but Lorenz hardly pays attention to Claude’s address. He does watch him closely, however—he can hardly do anything else, with the lights lowered everywhere but the front podium where the guest speakers stand. And Claude, as ever, is easy to look at. Despite whatever nerves he’d been wrestling with at dinner, he looks cool and composed, drifting from side to side in slow paces as he gives his speech with casual aplomb. He isn’t the only politician in attendance, but none of them are running against each other, so the atmosphere on stage is full of ease and camaraderie.

Lorenz wishes he could steal just a little of that for himself. He sits stiffly in his chair, hands knotted together in his lap as he strains to catch a glimpse, a whisper, the slightest scrap to suggest that someone is watching them. _Him_, specifically. The nape of his neck prickles uncomfortably, but he can’t trust it as evidence against the placebo of his imagination.

To his eyes, everyone in the room is always on the cusp of looking away from him. He’s handled far worse—as the days march on into weeks, some of his higher-ranking coworkers have grown comfortable enough to loose their tongues and bandy ill-hidden words behind his back—but the spectre in his mind is a far more fearsome foe. He thinks of the hidden eyes of the voyeur in the club, taking pictures of him without his knowledge, and feels dread clutch at his spine.

The lights go up suddenly to raucous applause, and he flinches in his seat before catching on and joining in. Ferdinand nudges him gentle with his elbow. “All right, my dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Quite all right.” Lorenz ducks his head, letting his hair fall in front of his face. “I need to visit the facilities, I’ll be right back.”

“Better hurry,” Ferdinand laughs, gesturing to the crowd around them as it mumbles and heaves itself upright, a great slumbering beast suddenly roused by light and noise. “I fear you may have a wait on your hands.”

Lorenz smiles, nods, and flees. He weaves his way through the tables, fielding greetings and handshakes with as much _noblesse oblige_ as he can muster, and when he makes it to the edge of the room he skirts it, keeping the large supporting pillars between himself and the bulk of the other attendees. His breath feels oddly tight in his chest, and his hands would tremble if they weren’t currently clasped behind his back for dear life. He scans the room as he walks, but of course nothing seems out of place. Everywhere is light and sound and color, coming at him like a thunderstorm directly to the face—long gowns, glittering jewels, dark suits, wafts of perfume—the sound of a glass shattering and the resultant shriek of surprise and laughter at someone’s drunken clumsiness. Lorenz’s skin crawls.

A hallway opens up suddenly to his right, and he practically falls into it, skirting a wheeled drink cart that had been stashed there during the speeches. It’s not the same hall he entered the room from, but the layout is similar, and he picks up the pace, casting glances over his shoulder. No one breaks away from the crowd to follow him, and finally, gasping for breath, he pushes through a side door and emerges into a small veranda.

Cool air and inky darkness fall over him like a slap to the face, and he takes a moment to get his bearings. The central gardens spread before him, nested between the four arms of the museum proper. Overhead hangs a honeysuckle bower, still mostly vine and twig, the buds of new leaves just beginning to unfurl; before him are shallow stone steps, a low balustrade, and beyond, the regimented shrubbery and stone-cropped pools that make up the garden itself. He can smell frost and wet grass, hear the trickle of the central water feature, lit up from below with pale white lights. Calming. Peaceful. He tips his head back and tries to breathe.

“Lorenz?”

To his great shame, he shrieks and jumps at the same time, nearly toppling as he twists to meet the enemy. But it’s only Claude, backlit by the fluorescent glow of the corridor and then subsumed in shadow as he shuts the door behind him and comes forward.

“Hey, it's just me. Are you feeling okay? Ferdinand said you were ill.”

“I’m—no, I’m not ill. I’m fine. I just… needed a breather.” He breathes in, deeply, as if to illustrate his point, and then finds he can’t stop, gasping like a fish flopping on dry land until his lungs burn with effort.

Firm hands take hold of his upper arms and he is guided, lost at sea, to sit down on a stone bench deep in the shade of the honeysuckle’s spidery embrace. The cold stone sinks into his seat immediately like he’s sat in cold water, and the shock of it helps. So does the warmth against his face as Claude cradles his head gently, gently against his belly.

“Easy,” Claude is saying, over and over, a quiet murmur that fills his mind like water filling an empty bowl. “Easy, Lorenz, easy. You’re all right.”

He’ll be embarrassed about this later; but for now, Lorenz turns his face into Claude and shoves nearer, ignoring the unkind edges of shirt buttons digging into his cheek. One hand runs through his hair, light and soothing. The other rubs his shoulder, the nape of his neck. Caught between hot and cold, Lorenz finally catches his breath.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” Claude asks after a while. He doesn’t step back until Lorenz sits up and away, rubbing the faint imprint of buttons on his face, and even then he doesn’t go far—just settles on the bench at his side, thigh pressed to thigh and head turned toward him with intent. Lorenz does not deserve this kindness.

“Forgive me. I just… lost my head a bit.” Lorenz smooths his hair back from his face and straightens his shoulders. “Claude, there is something we must discuss. I should have done so earlier in the evening, but I was unsure how to broach the topic.”

“There you are,” Claude murmurs. He gives Lorenz’s bony knee a friendly squeeze. “What’s up?”

“Lysithea informed me earlier today that my father has… hired someone to keep an eye on me. On… _us_. A private investigator.”

“Why?” Claude asks. He doesn’t seem angry, or shocked—he doesn’t seem anything at all. A blank slate for Lorenz to throw his worries onto.

“She doesn’t have all the details yet,” Lorenz says carefully. “I don’t really want to know _how_ she came by the information in the first place. But she suspects he is attempting to discern the… the veracity of our relationship. And… go public with whatever he finds.”

“Ah.” Claude is quiet for a long moment, so long that Lorenz fears he’s truly upset him. But he’s only thinking, because at long last he lets out a little _a-ha_ sort of noise and stands, offering Lorenz his hand. Lorenz takes it, bemused, and finds himself pulled to his feet directly into Claude’s personal space.

“Claude, what—”

“Shhh.” Claude leans into his space even further, so near that their breaths are nearly one, their noses but a hairsbreadth apart. Lorenz wonders how far Claude is standing on his tiptoes for such a thing to be possible, and trembles there on that precipice, aching to lean down and relieve the pressure but afraid to close the gap. “Let us assume,” Claude whispers, each word a breath against Lorenz’s parted lips, “for now, that everything we say and do is not private. A little bit paranoid, I know, but bear with me. We’ll get this sorted out, but for tonight… just trust me?”

“All right.” Lorenz gulps audibly and flushes when Claude just grins at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

“Enjoying what? Keeping you on your toes? Very much.”

“It seems to me that _you_ are the one on your toes, von Riegan.”

“Oh, _hilarious_. Suddenly he’s a comedian.” Claude drops back onto his heels and the sudden breadth of distance between them plucks a tender, febrile chord deep within Lorenz’s chest. “Don’t panic,” he whispers, smoothing the front of Lorenz’s suit jacket with broad hands.

“I won’t! Not… again.” He winces and situates the boutonniere on Claude’s lapel. “Thank you for that, earlier.”

“Of course. Not a problem.” Still standing close, but not close enough to kiss, Claude looks up at him seriously. “Are you truly all right? I can call Raph and have him bring the car up for you.”

Lorenz sighs with longing. “As lovely as that sounds, I shouldn’t. Better that we stay and mingle and… be seen mingling.” He wrinkles his nose at the prospect, but Claude only laughs and touches his elbow, bleeding warm through the fabric. It’s colder out here than he first realized.

Claude shivers as if realizing the same thing. “All right. C’mon then, let’s go back in, have a couple drinks. Von Aegir will be wanting to know you’re all right.”

_Dear Ferdie._ With a nod, Lorenz allows himself to be guided back indoors, his arm looped through Claude’s. He can already hear the swell of the crowd as they step into the corridor. But with Claude at his side, arm in arm, he feels like he can face almost anything. Even a room full of glittering strangers, each one a potential threat to his fragile peace of mind.

But they don’t make it that far. Heels click toward them on the marble floor and Dorothea rounds the corner suddenly, skirts swirling around her ankles as she comes to a stop at the sight of them. “There you are!” she exclaims, all smiles. “Just the men I was hoping to see.”

“Did you lose your plus one already, Thea?” Lorenz asks when Ferdinand does not immediately make an appearance.

“Oh, he’s around somewhere, talking up some boring old man,” she says, waving a hand. “I would _much_ rather pick your brains while we have a moment away, if that’s all right.”

Lorenz exchanges a glance with Claude. “What… about?”

“No need to look so terrified!” she laughs, threading her arm through Claude’s other elbow so that they’re strolling slowly three abreast back toward the main room. “It’s not dire, I promise. But I _do_ have a teeny-tiny confession… I didn’t come here _just_ to throw my money at your campaign, Claude.”

Claude laughs. “Oh really?”

“I was also hoping to snag an interview while I’m in town. The two of you have caused _quite_ a stir in the LGBT community, you know.”

“We have?” Lorenz knows he shouldn’t be surprised—he’s seen hints of it in the media, what parts of it he can stand to look at. The article Ashe wrote about him had touched on it. But if he’s honest, he’s been doing his damnedest to bury his head in the sand, fearful of backlash, and when he glances over Dorothea’s head at Claude, his “boyfriend” looks similarly caught off-guard.

“Not a bad stir, I hope?” Claude says.

“Oh, not at all! Of course, there are naysayers everywhere—but the response so far has been overwhelmingly positive, if a bit… confused. Lorenz came out on live television and has been enjoying a few _modest_ moments of fame since then, but neither of you have spoken too much about your relationship itself—about your years together in the closet, your shared struggles, the joys and challenges you’ve faced since going public! And the people are _dying_ to know all about it.”

Claude is frowning slightly, though he doesn’t seem displeased, just… on guard. “If you want to air our dirty laundry, you’re going to have to go through Lysithea.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already spoken with her,” Dorothea says easily. Her steps slow even further, and the two men slow along with her, following her lead—reluctant, perhaps subliminally, to rejoin the frantic sound and swell of the crowd gearing up for a night of dancing. “But I wanted to ask the two of you _in person_. It seemed the thing to do.”

“Ask us… what, exactly?”

“Claude, I’m delighted you asked.” She released him and moved to face them both, hands folded demurely in front of her. “It would be my _great_ honor if you would let me interview you for a featured article in Fodlan’s OUT magazine.”

Lorenz feels like he should be used to this after Vogue, after the offers of celebrity partnerships from all corners. But he reels, internally if not outwardly, and he feels Claude’s arm tighten with surprise around his own. “Both of us?” he hears himself ask, somehow calm and collected despite the whirl of emotions in his breast. “At once?”

“That’s right. As a couple.” She grins, eyes glittering with excitement. Lorenz searches her face, and is quite sure she’s genuine—quite sure that Ferdinand has not betrayed their secret. A small piece of the tension he’s carried on his brow all evening like a thorny crown comes loose.

“And you’ve cleared it with Lys?” Claude asks slowly. “I mean… it’s hard to say no to an offer like that. Lorenz, what do you think?”

Lorenz, already hovering on the side of _yes_, thinks abruptly of his father’s machinations, the creeping feeling of dread like nails on the nape of his neck. Claude is strong and steady at his side, but it could all be torn away in an instant. Vogue was one thing. This, a visible thinkpiece on their relationship _as a couple_, would be more than just a brick in the foundation of their public-facing personas—it would be a whole damn _wall_ to put between himself and his father’s meddling.

“Let’s do it,” he says with a decisive nod. “Er, when?”

“As soon as possible,” Dorothea says decidedly. “I fly back to Enbarr on Wednesday, and I would love to be able to get it started before then; in-person interviews are always so much more… well, personal!” She laughs, clear and brilliant as birdsong. “I’m sorry for such short notice, but to be fair, you did drop a hell of a bomb, Lorenz. Both of you, really.”

“I’ll have to talk to Hilda,” Claude admits, “but I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Great! I don’t know when I’ll be back in Derdriu, so best to get it sorted right away.” She pulls her phone seemingly from thin air and begins texting rapidly. “If you don’t mind I’ll just send off the pitch to my editor and get the ball rolling on the photoshoot.”

“Ah.” Lorenz should have foreseen _that_, too, and yet. “Photoshoot?”

“Of course, silly! Can’t have a front page spread without… well, a front page! Luckily all of _that_ can be arranged later, at your convenience.” She leans up and kisses his cheek, somehow dry-lipped despite the deep crimson color of her mouth. “Thank you again, boys. I’ll be in touch!”

She disappears again in a whirl of perfume and black lace, leaving the two of them standing lamely in the middle of the empty hall, only loosely arm in arm. After a moment Claude sighs and plants his forehead directly into Lorenz’s bicep.

“I think I’ve changed my mind. Let’s call the car.”

Lorenz finds himself in hearty agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the secret title for this chapter is: cameo central. next week, an interview!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interview, and a heart to heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is... a big boi. and includes some more backstory and lore drops, so i hope you enjoy!!

Tuesday dawns fair and warm, the first true tide of spring’s turning. To celebrate, Claude rides his bike to Lorenz’s place instead of taking the car. Hilda, dressed in a crisp pencil skirt and heels, declines to ride pillion and says she’ll meet him there; so Claude sets off a little early, intent on enjoying the day and the relative anonymity his helmet and leathers afford him.

Despite taking taking the scenic route, he arrives nearly an hour before Dorothea and her so-called “entourage” are supposed to show up. He parks Barbie in his designated guest spot and swipes his keycard to take the elevator up to the top floor, helmet tucked under one arm. It’s odd to have such easy access to Lorenz nowadays. Two months ago he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been invited over; two days ago he’d been seized with the impulse to order pizza, so he picked up a meat lovers and was waiting on Lorenz’s pristine white couch with a glass of red when his _boyfriend_ came home from work, looking like a crumpled receipt in human form.

Thankfully the evening had only improved from there; but today promises to be quite different. They’ve both taken a half-day from their respective jobs, and the night before had been spent on the phone, going over the details of their interview. Dorothea had sent them a handful of questions to get them thinking, but nothing was set in stone. She claimed she wanted them fresh and unpolluted, answering as honestly as possible. Which meant, of course, that they had to be prepared for _anything_.

_“And what are your preferences in bed? Top or bottom?”_

_“Claude von Riegan!”_

_“What? Listen, we should know these things in advance, all right? Even if she doesn’t ask us directly, it’s bound to come up at some point. Better to have something on hand, just in case.” _

_“And I will answer honestly when that time comes: it’s none of anyone’s bloody business but ours!”_

_“Ours, eh?”_

_“Hmph. You are incorrigible. And I have no preference, if you must know.”_

_“Good. Neither do I.”_

_“Good.”_

_“Good… glad that’s sorted.”_

_“Quite.”_

Claude gnaws on his lower lip to hide a smile as the elevator _dings_ upon arrival. Better not to think about such things—Lorenz is bound to be an anxious mess, and Claude will have to have his head screwed on straight (metaphorically speaking) to keep him on an even keel.

But when he strides into the entryway, open jacket snapping against his thighs, he finds Lorenz quite at his ease. He hasn’t gotten properly dressed yet, still wearing simple lounge pants and a purple silk bathrobe tied loosely about the waist. He waves briefly to Claude in greeting, busily flitting about from kitchen to sitting area to mantle with a dust-cloth.

“Come in, make yourself at home! I’m just doing some last-minute tidying.”

Claude drops his helmet on the side table next to that weird modern statue and leans his shoulder up against the wall as he thumbs the buckle of his chaps. “Don’t you have, like, servants to do that for you?”

Lorenz scoffs loudly. “Don’t be crass. I have a regular cleaning service, yes, but this is a special occasion and I didn’t want to disrupt their schedule.” He spares Claude a glance, notes his riding gear, and blanches. “Shoes _off_ at the door, please.”

“Yes sir!”

With practiced motions, Claude changes out his weathered boots for loafers and hangs his gear up in the closet next to Lorenz’s woolen double-breasted winter coat, stashed away now that the weather has begun to warm. It’s weirdly domestic to see it hanging beside his leather jacket. He shoves away the funny feeling in his chest and retrieves the casual sport coat he packed in his saddlebags. He’s a tiny bit damp with sweat under his shirt, but it’ll fade by the time Dorothea arrives—and anyway, she promised to save the full shoot for later, when the magazine could organize a proper studio space for it in Derdriu. Today is for preliminary shots only, on her honor.

Attired appropriately, he moves into the kitchen where Lorenz is wiping imaginary specks of dust from his set of wine glasses, and wraps his arms around that slender waist from behind. “Hey, you. Do I pass muster?”

Lorenz startles, but relaxes into him with surprising speed. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he says, turning to inspect him. He purses his lips and threads a stray lock of hair behind Claude’s ear. “You stink like leather.”

“Hey, some people are into that,” Claude says easily. “Serving wine?”

“I thought I would provide the option. She’s fond of a glass of red, if I recall rightly.” He checks the time, and uncorks the bottle resting on the counter to breathe with a swift twist of the corkscrew. “What did we forget?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re here early. I assumed you wanted to run over some practice questions one more time…?”

“Oh! Nah, I just felt like getting here with time to spare. Loosen up, you know.” He pours himself a modest glass and wanders out into the living room, swirling it beneath his nose. He’s not much of a wine man. “Are you going to be interviewing dressed like that?” he asks over his shoulder.

A patented Gloucester scoff, followed by the sound of wine pouring generously into a glass. “Certainly not! I have my clothes laid out in the bedroom. We could have coordinated better, perhaps, but at least this isn’t the official shoot.”

“I’m sure we’ll be sufficiently primped and pressed, when the time comes.”

Claude stands at the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows and looks out across the city. Below, the traffic moves like ants along the road, and beyond the last bastions of the city’s skyscrapers, the sea extends its silver fingers into the canals of the shopping district. It’s a beautiful vista, and a different vantage point over the city than he usually has. After a minute or two he hears the soft pad of bare feet against the carpet and a gust of warm, rose-scented hair washes over him as Lorenz stations himself at his side.

“I do have an update for you,” Claude says when Lorenz doesn’t immediately continue the conversation. “Regarding our… friend.”

Lorenz inhales sharply and plants his face in his wineglass. “Go on.”

“Lysithea’s people didn’t find anything on our phones, thank goodness, and no malware on your work computer.” He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “There was a monitoring program on my laptop, though. Installed last week. All the important stuff is encrypted, but it was doing periodic sweeps of my document and image files. So if it’s suspicious that I don’t have any personal photos of us from the last five years, that’s a strike against us.”

“Minimal,” Lorenz says with a little sniff. “If we were hiding an illicit relationship from the public, neither of us would have any incriminating evidence stored on the computers we use for work.”

“That was Lysithea’s thinking, too. They bulked up our anti-spyware though, and recommend we change all our passwords. Don’t leave our phones unattended, that sort of thing.”

At his side, he feels Lorenz wilt a little. “And what about… more old-fashioned methods?”

Claude rubs the back of his neck, recalling with distaste the oily feeling he'd had at the gala. Even after dropping Lorenz off and returning to his own place, he’d felt the tickle of unseen eyes on him, following him as he paced the dark, lonely rooms of his townhouse. It spooked him a bit, but he knows it’s all in his head. The sweep Raphael did of the place didn’t reveal any hidden cameras or other bugs, and he is _very_ good at his job. If there had been anything to find, he would have. Still, Claude hasn’t been sleeping as easily these last few nights, and he suspects Lorenz is even worse off, if the strain around his eyes is anything to go by.

“Not much we can do but wait,” he says, regretful. He slips a hand against the small of Lorenz’s back in comfort, and Lorenz slumps toward him a little more, wineglass held before his lips like a fan guarding his expression. “Hilda and Raph will keep an eye out when they’re with us. If you ever want to borrow either of them when you’re around town, just let me know. They’ve both offered their services, if you want a little extra security.”

“I’ve been thinking of hiring a security detail of my own,” Lorenz admits quietly. “But I wouldn’t know where to start. And it would be a bit of a tell, wouldn’t it? To suddenly have a bodyguard when I didn’t before.”

“Hire a PA that doubles as a bodyguard, then,” Claude suggests. Lorenz is very warm beneath his hand, and he tries to hold it steady, not stroke the elegant line of his back like he wants to. “Hilda is a godsend; maybe she can even recommend someone. If you’re still not sure, wait until the article drops? Dorothea’s, I mean. There’s bound to be a surge in public interest, and it would be frankly appalling at that point for you to _not_ have an assistant of some kind.”

Lorenz nods, placated by the compromise. “All right. I’ll ask Hilda to recommend someone, in that case.”

“Good.” Claude takes his empty glass away and lifts on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Go change. Dorothea will be here soon.”

To his mild surprise, Lorenz doesn’t argue. He simply looks thoughtful—to the kiss or to his instruction, Claude isn’t sure—and drifts agreeably to the bedroom.

Left behind, Claude observes the building across from them, the sky reflected in its myriad mirrored windows. It’s a well-respected hotel, boasting thousands of guests every day. It would be quite easy to rent a suite on one of the upper floors, if one had the means. Quite easy to point a camera across the street and straight into Lorenz’s living room, and no one the wiser.

With a stony face, Claude hits the button on the wall that will lower the privacy shades and stalks to the kitchen to rinse out his glass.

><><

When Dorothea arrives with Lysithea half an hour later, she is, as promised, accompanied by her assistant, a mousy girl who introduces herself as Fleche, and a photographer. _Just taking some test shots_, he promises, and that whimsical tone of voice is enough to drag Claude’s head out of the stormclouds and into the present to recognize him.

To be fair, it _has_ been fourteen years, give or take a couple months. The boy in his memory is skinny and snively and shy, always pushing his oversized glasses up his nose—the man before him is taller, a little bit more filled out, and seems to have figured out that undercuts and tortoiseshell spectacles work for him. The smile, however, is exactly the same.

“Ignatz Victor,” Dorothea says as she introduces him, but Claude is already shaking his hand heartily, grinning with familiarity.

“Ignatz! It’s good to see you. I didn’t think you’d be attached to this project—you did a fantastic job with the Vogue shoot.”

“Thank you! That’s why Dorothea asked me to come,” Ignatz replies, beaming and flushed with praise. “You’re looking well, Claude. It’s been a while.”

“I could say the same to you! Making quite a name for yourself, eh?”

Dorothea _hem-hems_ delicately and loops her arm through Claude’s. “All right, boys, you can play catch-up later. Ignatz _lives_ in Derdriu after all—I do not.” She leads the way into the main room like she owns the place, still refined and elegant despite trading her evening gown for a pantsuit. “And where is your _beau_, Mr. von Riegan? Not in hiding again, I hope?”

“I’m here!” Lorenz blusters, emerging from his bedroom as if on cue. He’s changed out of his loungewear into a crisp three piece suit with a subtle lavender pinstripe, the glint of a golden chain looping into the pocket of his waistcoat. A black bowtie hangs undone over his shoulders. He doesn’t seem to remember it as he comes to kiss Dorothea’s cheek in greeting, and shake Ignatz and Fleche courteously by the hands. “Forgive my tardiness. Can I offer you any refreshments? Water, seltzer, or wine if you prefer…?”

“Red for me, if you have it,” Dorothea says, settling on one of the three sofas arranged in the sunken sitting area. She crosses one legs over the other and pulls a pen and a pad of paper from her briefcase. “Please don’t mind me, I’m just going to take some notes. Is it alright if I record? It’s easier to go back over it later than jotting it down by hand.”

Claude shoots a glance at Lysithea, a quiet shadow drifting behind Dorothea’s effervescence. She favors him with a nod and a wink. _Everything is in hand. _“Sure. Whatever’s easiest for you.” He turns to Igntaz, who is scanning the room with a keen eye and a serious-looking camera already in hand. “Can I do anything? _Should_ I do anything?”

“Oh, no, you’re fine! Just stand there and look pretty!” Igntaz says, eyes crinkled up behind his glasses in a smile. “The lightning in here is really lovely, it filters just right with the shades like that. Do you mind if I take some candids? Get a feel for it?”

“Go right ahead.” Claude puts his hands awkwardly in his pockets and then pulls them out again. “Er…”

“Oh, don’t worry about posing. Just do whatever it is you were going to do, pretend I’m not even here.”

At a bit of a loss, Claude wanders into the kitchen where Lorenz is pouring wine. He glances up at Claude when he enters, violet eyes trapped beneath severe brows that soften at the sight of him. “All right?”

“Fine. It’s just. A bit weird.” Claude’s hand gravitates toward the small of his back, and Lorenz leans into it with a hum. “Are you nervous?”

“That obvious?” The cork is replaced with a soft _pop_ and Lorenz turns to him more fully. “Do I look all right?”

Claude can’t help but laugh. “Is that a joke? You’re always beautiful, Lorenz.”

A dull flush blooms in his pale face. “Getting into character already, I see,” he murmurs, low enough that no one standing in the next room can hear. He averts his gaze as Claude reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I was being honest.” He hears the soft, repetitive _click_ of the camera shutter and tries not to grimace. “It’s a bit annoying, honestly, I’ve never actually met someone who is so effortlessly stunning _all the time_.”

“Claude—” Lorenz begins, taken aback, but Claude can’t give him the satisfaction of finishing that sentence.

“C’mon,” he says, swiping the glass of wine from the counter. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

His heart is pounding as he hands Dorothea the glass, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely from interview nerves. He sits on the couch opposite her, Fleche and Lysithea off to the side, Ignatz flitting like a shadow about the room as he lines up his shots and stops periodically to frown at the display screen. Hilda has arrived by now also, and lurks discreetly by Lysithea, phone in hand as usual. Lorenz joins him at last, reserved but relaxed, and after a few more minutes of small talk, the interview begins in earnest.

“Why don’t we start with something easy?” Dorothea says, leaning back against the couch with a deceptively passive smile. A lioness feinting before the strike. “How about you tell me about when you first _knew_.”

“Knew…?” Lorenz echoes, mystified.

“You know! Knew that you were _in love_.” She chews the word with relish between her teeth. Claude can already feel Lorenz going stiff and sullen at his side. With a sigh, he leans into him and plants a proprietary hand on his knee.

“College, for me.”

Lorenz turns to stare at him. “Truly?”

“Have I never told you this story?” Claude says with a warning squeeze. _Don’t blow our cover right away, you idiot_, he thinks, with more fondness than Lorenz probably deserves.

Lorenz makes a _hmph_ noise and settles deeper into the couch, deeper into Claude’s side. His shoulder is bony but warm as Claude gives in and slides an arm around him, scritching an idle hand through his hair. “Tell it again,” Lorenz says, tilting his head into Claude’s shoulder. Across from them, Dorothea smiles and writes something down.

“Maybe don’t put this in the article,” Claude begins, “but I first realized I liked him the night a bunch of us from the fraternity went skinny dipping in the fishing hole and Lorenz made off with Dima’s underpants.”

“_Claude_—”

“On pain of—I don’t know, a _very_ scathing letter from His Royalness, _please_ don’t mention that part,” Claude laughs. “It’s not terribly romantic, anyway. And it’s not… not really the real answer.”

“I certainly hope not,” Lorenz mutters. “A terribly ignoble anecdote for you to start with, my dear.”

“All right, all right. The real answer is… it was even sooner than that.” Claude hesitates, biting his lip. He’s treading too close to the truth, but with Dorothea’s emerald green eyes staring at him over the coffee table, weighing each word he says, he doesn’t know how he can do anything else. “It was, ah. Toward the end of our first semester, actually. I’d just had some bad news from my parents, and I was… in a bit of a state. Lorenz came back to our room—we were roommates, as you know, and didn’t always… get along.”

“Bit of an understatement,” Lysithea mumbles from some somewhere behind him.

“Hush. Who’s the one telling the story? Anyway, as I was saying, he came back to the room…”

><

Claude heard the key turning in the lock and stood bolt upright in the dark room, preemptively wiping the wet from his cheeks. But not quick enough—Lorenz stepped in and flicked the lights on, starting back at the sight of him.

“Claude, whatever are you doing standing here in the dark?” he asked waspishly. “It’s a bit creepy, you know, to just come back and find you—oh.” The irritation bled from his voice as Claude turned his back. “Claude? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Claude stalked to his side of the room and grabbed a tissue off the desk to blow his nose. Loudly.

“Really? Because you don’t seem _fine_.” His voice was still brisk, but softer in a way that Claude had never heard before. There was silence for a moment and then Claude nearly leapt out of his skin at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Stay put. I’m going to make us some tea.”

Lorenz left the room again. Grateful for the reprieve, Claude busied himself with cleaning his face and pressing his forehead to the cold window-glass in an effort to soothe the reddened puffiness around his eyes. When the door opened again, Lorenz just sighed and began moving things around on his desk to make way for his tea tray. His actual, honest to goddess tea tray. _I will never understand Fódlaners… _

“Here,” Lorenz said after a minute or two of fussing. Claude turned to find a humble mug being held out toward him, filled to the brim with steaming liquid. When he brought it to his nose he felt the stinging in his eyes all over again.

“Almyran pine,” he whispered, voice cracked clean through from weeping. “Lorenz…”

“Your favorite, yes, I know. I do remember _some_ things.” He tipped a bit of honey into his own cup and stirred slowly, eyes pinned to the process as though his tea was a fascinating puzzle to be unlocked. “You do not have to tell me anything. But if you wish it, I can provide a listening ear.”

Claude wanted to scoff at him, at his stiff mannerisms and stilted speech—but he couldn’t. He’d never seen Lorenz like this before, hesitant in manner, each word carefully considered before being spoken, like he was afraid of treading too firmly on thin ice. So he sipped his tea and sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress crumpling sadly beneath his weight, and said in a voice gone raw with grief—

“My grandfather is dead.”

He could hear Lorenz fumble with his cup, nearly dropping it before he composed himself. “Did you…”

“I just found out, yeah. My parents called.” He tipped his head toward the phone lying dark and silent at the end of the bed. “It wasn’t, um. Completely unexpected. He wasn’t well. But.” He took another fortifying breath of pine-scented air, letting it roll through him like distant thunder. “I don’t know. I thought I would have more time.”

_Time for what? _went unasked, and Claude was grateful for it. Lorenz didn’t say anything at all, in fact, just stirred his tea over and over, a gentle whispering scrape of spoon against china. It was more soothing than it had a right to be.

“I hadn’t seen him in a while,” Claude continued. The mug was hot in his hands, but it steadied him, helped him find his way through words that only made partial sense to his addled brain. “But I feature pretty heavily in his will, I guess.”

“That’s… good?” Lorenz ventured, finally breaking his silence. “You have his support, even if he’s no longer here to give it personally.”

“Yeah.” For some reason, something about those words struck him hard in the chest, and he sipped hastily at his tea to distract his stupid tear ducts from working overtime. “I guess I’m… surprised. I wasn’t expecting it. He… was a bit old-fashioned, you know, generational… things. He was never rude, just. He didn’t understand.”

He watched his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. Of all the memories that could have come to him, the one clearest in his head was of being five, sitting on his grandfather’s knee and wearing the Duke’s signet ring on his thumb, the only finger big enough to keep it from slipping right off. The large, dark jewel had fascinated him, the glint of the Riegan crest carved deep into its glittering surface.

_You could wear this ring one day, my dear. If you wished it. _

He wondered where the ring was now. Still on the man’s finger, most likely. Or sitting in one of the Duke’s many desk drawers, once such a deep fascination to his younger self, now waiting for the next Riegan heir to slip it on their finger. Once upon a time that person was mother. Maybe now, if he wanted it, it could be himself.

“You have a title waiting for you,” Claude said after a moment. “When your father dies.”

“That’s true.” Lorenz didn’t sound put off by abruptness of his comment. “They’re a bit outdated, of course. More of a historical courtesy than anything else. A title does not guarantee wealth, or success, or a seat on the Roundtable, come to that.”

“It used to.”

“Yes. Reforms notwithstanding, I think such a change was for the better.”

Claude couldn’t help but be surprised by that. “Really? I had you pegged for a traditionalist.”

“To be honest, I’m relieved to not have to follow my father into politics. It interests me, but only as a subject, not as a vocation.” Lorenz sighed. “Regardless, it seems foolish to simply hand over one’s seat to the nearest blood relation. What if a family line dies out? What if the heir in question doesn’t wish to go into politics, or isn't suitable for such a vocation? It places a great deal of pressure on a family, and if we consider the history of—ah.” He ground to a halt and stared into his tea. “I’m rambling, and you are grieving. Forgive me.”

“No, it’s. It’s fine.” Truth be told, Lorenz’s _rambling_ had staved off another wave of tears. In the warm wake of that realization, Claude found himself rather endeared to his roommate for the first time all semester. “You won’t be fighting me for a seat at the Roundtable in ten years, then?”

“Ha! Certainly not. And I do not envy you that struggle.” Lorenz glanced up at him for the first time, eyes half-hidden by the fall of his awkward grown-out bangs. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be excellent at it.”

Claude clutched his mug of tea a little tighter. “You do?”

“Yes. You are a natural leader. And… exceedingly clever.”

“Don’t hurt yourself complimenting me there, Lorenz. I know I’m not exactly your favorite person.”

“Even so.” Lorenz’s voice turned haughty for a moment before falling back into studied neutrality. “I stand by what I said. We may not always see eye to eye, but it’s clear that you have a gift for the machinations and maneuvering required to sit at the Roundtable.” He cleared his throat. “I think your grandfather would be proud to see you following in his footsteps.”

_Aaaand there go the waterworks._ Claude managed to choke out a “thank you” and turned his face away, grateful when Lorenz busied himself with his tea and let him cry in peace.

><

“I don’t think I knew what love was, then,” Claude says into the quiet room. “We’re all idiots in college, aren’t we, pining dramatically, heartsick and certain we’re the only people to have ever felt that way?” He takes a steadying breath. Beside him, Lorenz lays a hand on his thigh—at a very modest, unassuming spot just above his knee—and strokes along the inseam of his trousers with a soothing thumb. “Anyway. Yeah. That was it, for me. Even if I didn’t properly know what it was, at the time.”

“You never told me,” Lorenz murmurs.

“Yeah, well. Bit embarrassing. And it was kind of a messy time for me, emotionally.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s easy to write off as just a… a symptom of where I was, then. But enough about _me_. I want to hear your side of this.”

Lorenz wrinkles his nose, brow furrowed in thought, and Claude feels his chest twist with anxiety. They had practiced this, the night before. It’s true, his own answer went a bit off the rails from what they’d agreed on, but it had been… more or less similar. Developed a crush in college, romance bloomed later five years down the road when they saw one another again at their class reunion. Still, he waits with bated breath as Lorenz turns the idea over on his tongue.

“It was college for me, too,” he says musingly. “Not quite at the same time, but not far off. It’s difficult because I—” and oh, fuck, now he’s really going off script, “I didn’t know I was gay, at the time. All I have is hindsight, which is certainly clear enough but still jumbled with… how did you put it? _Where I was, then_.”

Claude’s heart thu-thunks in his chest. He hadn’t known that little detail, and he’s suddenly burning to ask a thousand questions—but this is hardly the time, with Dorothea’s focus bearing down on them like a man-o’-war under full sail.

“You touched on that in the article for Vogue,” she says with a nod, pen tapping thoughtfully against her lower lip. “It’s a difficult thing, coming to terms with your own identity. Let alone falling in love…”

“I certainly didn’t plan on it.” Lorenz glances at Claude, a small, private smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. “I suppose one never _plans_ for love, do they?”

Dorothea hums neutrally and Claude tries not to startle as he tears his eyes away from Lorenz’s face. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “And when did you confess? Five years is a long time to carry on a secret relationship—let me think. That must have been around the time of our five-year reunion at Garreg Mach, right…?”

“That’s right,” Claude says, diving into the fabric of their story to cover his nerves.

Lorenz hasn’t taken his hand from his knee, and despite the perfectly chaste point of contact, he feels the warmth of it through his entire body. Even when they shift over the course of the next hour or so, taking turns answering Dorothea’s questions without any more deviations from their rehearsed responses, he feels the memory of it like a tattoo inked into his skin.

“Lorenz,” she says during a lull, while Claude takes a break to sip some water. He’d gotten a teensy bit carried away talking about his campaign. “Tell me about your role in all of this.”

“In… his work?” Lorenz clarifies.

“Yes. You haven’t been very publicly involved, apart from being his plus-one to events now that your relationship is out the open. Do you have plans to change that?”

“Well, I…” He trails off and glances at Claude. They hadn’t anticipated _this_ question. Claude tucks his chin in a nod, giving him the go-ahead to answer honestly. “I suppose we haven’t really talked about it yet. I would _like_ to be more involved, but…”

“You would?” Claude asks, startled by the admission. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Lorenz shrugs. “It’s not really my area. And I’m not certain how well the public would take it.”

Claude considers this. It’s fairly standard practice for the spouses of Roundtable representatives to pull their weight in the political arena, even if it’s relegated more to speaking at luncheons and doing visible community service—both of which Lorenz would be perfect at. He’d just never thought Lorenz would be… interested.

“I should have brought it up sooner,” Claude says gently. He takes the excuse to reach over and hold Lorenz’s hand. “You’ve just been so busy with work, and the media rigmarole…”

“We can discuss it.” Lorenz gifts him a small, private smile before turning to Dorothea. “I suppose that’s a roundabout way of saying… expect to see more of me. If that’s even possible.” He laughs lightheartedly, but Claude can hear the strain beneath it. He gives his hand a squeeze for fortitude before letting go.

“It’s strange to be able to do this kind of thing,” Claude says, finding his way back onto the narrow path they’ve forged together. “Five years is a long time to pretend to just be friends.”

“You were quite reticent with your own circle of friends and acquaintances,” Dorothea agrees, only the faintest hint of reproach in her voice as she smiles at them from across the coffee table. “It must have been difficult, acting in front of them, lacking a proper support network.”

“It was,” Lorenz says before Claude can gather the breath to answer. This is more familiar territory—they’d walked this ground ten times over last night on the phone. “We told a few people, of course, but we—well, _I_ was paranoid.”

“You? And not Claude, who had his political career to consider?”

“When have I ever given a shit about what people thought of me?” Claude laughs. “I was all for it, at the time—being open about it, I mean. My political reputation had already survived the country finding out I’m half Almyran, and I was never very secretive about having dated men and women in the past. It wouldn’t have been a huge surprise.”

“It was for my sake,” Lorenz says. His voice has gone subdued, almost demure. “At the time I was still trying to prove my worth as a mid-level executive, to stand apart from my father’s shadow. I didn’t think I could bear the additional scrutiny.”

“And you’re better prepared for it now?”

“I believed I was.” Lorenz reaches for Claude’s hand again, linking their fingers together on the couch between them. His palm is a little bit sweaty, but Claude declines to mention it. “This whole affair has definitely been more… intense than I anticipated. But we have a strong foundation, now.” He lifts his eyes to Claude’s. “Five years is nothing to sneeze at, and it’s only the beginning.”

A brief pang of regret frissions at the edge of Claude’s smile, and he leans in for a kiss to cover it. Lorenz, bless him, doesn’t freeze up on him, just leans into Claude’s shoulder and returns the soft, warm pressure of his lips. Dorothea coos, and somewhere Claude hears a camera shutter _click_, but he can’t bring himself to care.

><><

By the time the interview concludes and Ignatz decides he’s gotten a sufficient number of test shots—Claude doesn’t think he put down his camera since he arrived—they are both wrung dry. As soon as the elevator door slides shut, Claude is throwing himself onto the couch, feet propped conscientiously over the arm as he rubs his tired eyes with both hands.

“Fuck, that was grueling. I wasn’t expecting so many questions about my campaign.”

“You both did very, very well,” Lysithea praises. She does the rounds, pressing glasses of water into their hands and chivvying a worn-out Lorenz into a seat of his own. Given leave to drop the doting host routine, Lorenz falls into it like his strings have been cut, legs splayed in front of him and glass held to his temple like an ice pack. “I’m incredibly proud. Even _I_ was almost convinced for a minute there.”

“Delighted to hear it,” Lorenz rasps, and takes a sip of water. “Hilda, what do you think? Did we pass muster?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Lorenz, it doesn’t suit you,” she answers primly. She’s already half into her coat, but she makes time to lean down and kiss all of them on the cheek, even Lysithea. “I have to go meet with our security team to tie up some things. Take the afternoon off, you two. And don’t get into any trouble if you can help it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Claude mumbles. She flips him off and steps into the waiting elevator. He laughs, tilting his head on the couch to look at Lorenz. “That means she thinks we kicked ass.”

“Marvelous.” Despite his weary appearance, Lorenz is jiggling his leg, and his eyes dart frenetically over the room like he’s cataloguing every wrinkle that’s out of place. He skims right over Claude and then comes back when he realizes he’s being watched. “What?”

“You seem restless.” With some groaning and popping of joints, Claude hauls himself upright and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Get… out of here?” Lorenz blinks at him, bemused. “Where would we go? Didn’t Hilda just say not to get into trouble…?”

“It’s not _trouble_. Just getting some fresh air. We’ve been sitting for a while. How about a jaunt down to the coast?” He sits up, energized by the prospect. “I’ve got a spare helmet, and it’s a beautiful day…”

Lorenz looks startled at first, then thoughtful. “All right. Just let me change.”

“Take your time.” Claude sinks back against the couch and shuts his eyes. “I’m gonna catch forty winks. Give me a shake when you’re ready to leave.”

He isn’t given time to relax, however. As soon as Lorenz disappears, Lysithea is sitting herself primly on the couch beside him, giving him a gentle but meaningful elbow to the ribs when he fails to respond adequately.

“Wake up, sleepy-head, you’re not in the clear yet.”

“Goddess,” Claude sighs, but he pulls himself together and gives her his full attention. “Fine, what’s up?”

“A few things. One, I meant it—you both did very well. Almost _too_ well.”

“Too well? _Is_ there such a thing?”

She gives him a _look_, roseate eyes pinning him in place like a beetle on cardstock. “I’m going to ask you a question, Claude, while it’s just us, and I want you to answer honestly.”

He rubs his brow, puzzled. “All right, shoot.”

“Do you have feelings for Lorenz?”

Claude’s heart hiccups in his chest and a chill spreads through him, as if he’s stepped into an ice bath. “What?”

“You heard me. Do you care for him? Beyond what you’ve been pretending for this scheme of ours?”

“I—I mean he’s my best friend, next to Hilda, of course I… care.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant.” She finally pries her gaze away, and he blots at the anxious sweat beading on his brow with the back of his wrist. “Right. Sorry for being blunt, but as your public affairs specialist I need to know these things so I can better prepare.”

“Prepare for _what_,” Claude mutters, not really expecting an answer. Likely for the best, because she doesn’t seem intent on giving him one.

“I’ve been in talks with Ignatz’s team and we’ve come up with some timeslots for you to shoot next week. I’ll forward them to your calendars, please respond by end of day tomorrow. Also, the tickets for the summit in Almyra are in your phone’s wallet. First class, courtesy of your _boyfriend’s_ bank account, don’t thank me.”

“Lovely,” Claude says weakly. He feels about as sturdy as a tower of cards, liable to drop at the slightest breeze, and the reminder of the summit reconjures the headache he’s been staving off since the gala. “Anything with the investigator…?”

“Nothing concrete, but I agree with your assertion that Lorenz should hire a bodyguard. No, I’m not prescient—he spoke to me just before the interview.” She checks her phone and sighs. “Hilda has a few suggestions, I’m going to review and vet them before sending them on to Lorenz to peruse. I don’t like bringing someone else in on this scheme, especially someone we don’t already know, but Lorenz’s safety is paramount.”

“Lys…” He trails off and gives in to the urge to pull her into a hug. She squeaks but allows it, thumping his shoulder companionably. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. You can’t have imagined you were signing up for this.”

“Neither did you, and you knew even less than I did at the time.” She pulls back and smooths her hair flat with fussy, purple-manicured fingers. “That’s all from me for right now. I already took care of both of your calendars for the summit, so don’t worry about that. Focus on getting your speeches and whatever else up to par. And the photoshoot next week. Don’t forget!”

“I won’t.”

“Good.” She stands and slips her phone into her purse, looking down at him fondly as though she’s his mother and not, in fact, five years his junior. “Your idea of an outing is a good one. Take him and get out of town for a few hours. A few days would probably be better, but now isn’t the best time for a vacation.”

“I don’t take vacations,” Claude scoffs.

“Neither does Lorenz.” She tsks. “It really can’t be good for your health. All right, I’m off. Have a fun date, boys.”

“Thank you, Lysithea,” Lorenz calls, appearing in the door of his bedroom. He’s shed his suit for dark jeans and a casual sport coat thrown over a turtleneck—an item of clothing that Claude doesn’t think should look good on _anyone_, and yet. “Your efforts are greatly appreciated.”

“Yes, yes. Yours too.” Lysithea waves and departs for the elevator.

“Well?” Lorenz says once she’s gone, approaching the couch where Claude is still sprawled lazily. “Will this do?”

“Do you have a leather jacket? Denim?”

“I do not have a _denim jacket_, no,” he says with a slight curl of his lip.

“Right. I’ll lend you mine, then.”

><><

The day has stayed fine over the course of the afternoon—a miracle in northeastern Leicester at this time of year—and the sun beams down from an azure sky as they head out of town and along the coast of the Derdriatic Sea. With the traffic of Derdriu behind them, Claude feels confident showing off a bit, zipping around the gentle curves of the road as it hugs the bluffs and slips down along the fine yellow sand of the coast. And then back up again, off the main highway as they climb turn after hairpin turn to the highest point in the county.

Claude hasn’t had someone riding pillion in a while, but he adjusts quickly to the extra ballast. Lorenz, it turns out, is a good rider. He leans with the motion of the bike instead of pulling fearfully against it, and his arms around Claude’s waist are snug but not uncomfortably tight, giving him room to breathe and work.

Up this high, Claude feels like they’re flying. The wind whips past them but doesn’t hinder them, seeming to carry them forward like twin seabirds held aloft above the waves. He slows a bit as they crest the next rise, and while he’s practically deaf with the rush of air in his ears, he can _feel_ Lorenz inhale against him at the view.

To their left and slightly behind, the city unfolds like a tiny toy map, the skyscrapers little more than legos, the glint of cars reduced to pinpricks of light that wink and glimmer in the late-day sun. Before them, even more captivating, is the sea. It spreads like a veil across the curvature of the world, rough and white-capped. And beyond, to the routh, the blue-grey smudge of Faerghus is suspended at the farthest reaches of his vision, hardly discernible even on a clear day with no clouds or smog to interrupt the miles between them.

He pulls the bike up to a parking spot at the end of a winding dirt road. A poorly-maintained sign declares the place a city landmark—White Bluffs Overlook—but Barbie is the only vehicle here. As soon as they come to a stop, Lorenz is off the seat, tugging his helmet off as he walks to the low stone fence that borders the edge of the bluff.

“Don’t go tumbling off!” Claude calls after him, leaving his own helmet on Barbie’s seat to await his return. “It would be bad press!”

The joke is weak, but Lorenz laughs anyway, shaking his head. His hair, held loosely in a knot at the nape of his neck, spills free into a long lavender curtain, immediately taken up by the wind as it whips inland off the water. “It’s beautiful here,” he says once Claude has drawn abreast of him. His eyes are shining as he looks across the vista, and his cheeks are uncharacteristically rosy. It’s a good look on him.

“It’s my favorite spot in the city. I come here sometimes when I need space. In the summer it’s swarming with kids and tourists, but right now…” Claude holds his arms out to indicate the perfect solitude that surrounds them.

“I should get out more,” Lorenz muses. He sets his helmet down on the wall and folds his arms against the wind. His borrowed leather jacket rides up in the sleeves, exposing a few inches of his slim, pale forearms. It’s a little short in the cuff and wide in the shoulder—he could wrap it around himself in half again, if he wanted—and Claude secretly enjoys the way he seems to be swaddled in it, like a child shielding himself with a favorite blanket. “It occurs to me I haven’t seen much of the wider Derdriu area, outside of the city proper.”

“You’re missing out.” Claude nudges him with his elbow. “I’ll show you around. I am, after all, a certified local.”

Lorenz tips him an incredulous eyebrow. “We both know _that_ is patently untrue.”

“Not completely! I spent summers as a kid visiting Granddad here. I know all the best spots.” He tickets them off on his finger. “Where to get the best ice cream, the best kiddie pools, the best theme parks…”

“Ah yes, premier spots for your average ten-year-old. You should write a travel guide.”

“Hey, they were fun spots! I bet they hold up. The ice cream was _definitely_ top tier.”

Lorenz shakes his head, smiling. “Maybe when the weather warms. I’m more in the mood for a hot coffee at the moment.”

“We can do that, too. There’s this little cafe run by an old Almyran lady in the Temple District. I just figured we could do without the… prying eyes.” Claude reaches out, deceptively casual, and links a forefinger through Lorenz’s belt loop, tugging until he leans up against him with a grunt. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so casually. Not since college, at any rate.”

“Shocked to see me in jeans?” Lorenz snips, but he’s biting his cheek against laughter. “You saw me in my bedclothes, earlier, you have hardly anything left to be shocked by.”

“That _was_ shocking, but fortunately I have a strong constitution.” Claude drops his hand and shoves them into his own jeans pockets, mulling over the question in his head. He wants to ask, but Lorenz is finally relaxed for the first time all day, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“You’re thinking awfully hard,” Lorenz says after a minute or two. He’s beyond flushed and well on his way to windburned, but he stands tall and uncontested at his side, a slim tree planted firm at the bluff’s weathered shoulder. “What about? Nothing bad, I hope.”

“I was just thinking about the interview… you said something that surprised me.”

“Oh really? I thought for certain you knew all my secrets by now. Even the made-up ones.”

Claude forces a smile, eyeing the first tinge of sanguine orange as the sun dips toward the horizon. “You said you didn’t know you were gay. In college.”

“Oh, that. That _is_ true, actually.” Lorenz tugs the collar of his borrowed jacket a little higher around his throat. “You really didn’t know?”

“No. I mean, you haven’t been exactly… forthcoming about your identity. To me, anyway.”

“I suppose not.” Lorenz is just a darkened silhouette out of the corner of his eye, but Claude can still feel the way he folds in on himself, as if considering the precious secrets in his heart like a clam beholding its pearl. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you with it, Claude. You’re one of my dearest friends. I just… it seemed unnecessary. It took me a very long time to realize it, and then to come to terms with the reality of it and what that meant. What would it have mattered, if I spoke of it?”

“It would have mattered to _me_,” Claude bursts out. He clears his throat and steels himself to turn, to face Lorenz head-on. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You’re angry with me,” Lorenz says. He’s looking back at him, now, brows drawn low.

“I’m not… no, Lorenz, I’m not angry. I just.” He seizes the back of his own neck, trying to massage the tension out of himself, out of the moment. “I’m trying to figure out where I went wrong, that you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lorenz says softly. “It was simply circumstance. Everyone was very busy, including myself—it felt selfish to detract attention from that.”

“So you truly didn’t tell… anyone. Before that interview.”

Lorenz shakes his head quietly.

“Oh, Lorenz.” Claude’s chest aches at the thought. “Never one to do things by halves, are you?”

“I only wanted to placate the protesters, and try to give some hope—”

“Do you ever think of yourself?” he interrupts, too incensed to let him continue. “Fucking hell, Lorenz. That’s such a deeply personal thing, and you’ve decided to wield it like a sword against injustice instead of… I don’t know. Just living. Just _being_.”

“I didn’t have the luxury,” Lorenz says, and it’s like a slap, draining all the fight out of him in an instant. “Claude. I know our situations are very different, but back when everyone was kicking up a fuss about your heritage, and what that meant for your political career—you didn’t sit idly and let them beat you to death with it. You turned it on them, used it in your favor. _A sword against injustice_.” He laughs, a delighted sound that eases the hurt in Claude’s chest. “So poetic. I must remember that one.”

Claude shakes his head. “Still writing poetry, then? No, don’t distract me. You were paying me a compliment, I think—do continue.”

“I never stopped,” Lorenz says lightly. Claude isn’t sure whether he means the poetry or the compliment. “If it makes you feel any better, I was making plans to… come out. To you, and to our friends. It was still such a new thing, I wanted to… I don’t know. Test it out? Try it on for size?”

“And how do you find the fit?” Claude asks, watching him draw his hands into his sleeves like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Public personas aside… it’s nice.” Lorenz lifts a hand, gathering his wayward locks of hair and twisting it down the front of his shoulder like a princess making a coy flirtation. “And since I know you’re still dying to know the details, I _had_ started to question my identity by the time we graduated. It would have been difficult not to, I think, surrounded by so many brilliant and beautiful young men.”

“Oh?” Claude hears himself say, interest spiking with his adrenaline. “Oh goddess, _please_ tell me you had a crush on someone in our house that second year. Who was it? Was it Ferdinand? Or someone outside it—oh goddess, was it _Dima__?_”

“No, you idiot, that was _you_,” Lorenz tuts, hiding a smile behind his collar. “I will not confess a _crush_, per se, but I will admit to finding several of our second year attractive. And no, I will not tell you who, so don’t ask. It wasn’t anything concrete, anyway, just… inklings.”

“You’re a terrible tease.”

“And _you_ are an incurable gossip.” Lorenz huffs. “Very well, but a secret for a secret.”

“Deal,” Claude says, too intrigued to consider the consequences of such a pact.

“Very well. The truth of the matter is, looking back, I think my perfectly platonic friendship with Ferdinand may have had some… elements of physical attraction. On my own side alone, I’m sure. And…”

“And?” Claude coaxes, tipping an elbow gently into his side.

Lorenz’s face is very red. “Dedue was—_is_—a very handsome fellow.”

_A very handsome fellow. Goddess, he talks like a romance novel. _“You have good taste,” Claude says instead, ignoring the sting of being passed over. As if it mattered. Such a childish thing, to feel spurned because Lorenz hadn’t fancied him in college.

“If by _good taste_ you mean a tendency to fall for people I can’t have, I suppose that’s true.”

Claude’s eyebrows climb in consternation. “_Fall for_? That sounds serious.”

“I only meant—” Lorenz stops and huffs. “Nevermind. I’ve told you _my_ secret. Now I want to hear one of yours.”

“Ah. I did agree to that, didn’t I.” He spreads his hands as if to make himself an easier target. “All right, then. Fire away. My secrets are at your disposal.”

Lorenz regards him through narrowed eyes a moment, cool and calculating. Then he says, quite out of the blue, “Why haven’t you moved out of your grandfather’s townhouse?”

Claude blinks. “Sorry?”

“You clearly don’t enjoy living there, and yet you insist on staying—you won’t even concede to rearrange the furniture! I’m quite sure everything is exactly as it was the day Duke Riegan passed. Is that not so?”

“Goddess,” Claude wheezes faintly. “You’re not pulling punches, are you.” He waves away his half-hearted apologies. “No, it’s fine. You’re right. I’ve… been putting it off for a couple years now. It just feels strange, to disrupt the place. It’s like a mausoleum. If I move something, or redecorate, it’ll feel like…” He shakes his head, digging his thumb into the meat of his lower lip to keep his composure. “It’ll feel like he’s really gone.”

“Oh, Claude.”

“I know. Ridiculous, right? It’s been over a decade. And yet.” He sighs. “Granddad was… special. To me. He’s the reason I decided to pursue politics here in Fodlan instead of…”

“Instead of Almyra?” Lorenz fills in, sounding surprised. “I thought Almyra was a monarchy.”

Claude stifles a wince and drops his hand from his face. “It is. I just meant, instead of staying in Almyra and becoming a… a lawyer or something. I don’t know.”

“Sounds terribly dull. Though I’m sure you parents would have approved…”

It’s a bit of a leading question, but Claude doesn’t mind it. Lorenz should probably know _some_ of the particulars, if they’re to be entrenched in this strange, one-sided war together. “They definitely would have. They never really approved of me following in my grandfather’s footsteps. My mother…” He trails off. “Well, you know. Everyone knows.”

“I know what I learned in modern history courses,” Lorenz says evenly. “She fought for Roundtable reforms and as soon as the positions became electable rather than inherited, she left the country and was never heard from again.”

“That’s the gist of it. The public-facing gist, anyway.” Claude winks at him. “Look at you, pulling more secrets out of me than I promised.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “I thought we were having a _conversation_, Claude. But if it makes you feel better, I swear to return the favor. _Again_.”

“All right, if you’re gonna twist my arm about it. The truth is… she fell in love.”

“What?”

“Shocking, right? Stone cold Judith Daphnel, next Duchess of Riegan, giving up her entire career, all her friends and family, for one person.” Claude folds his arms tighter over his chest, and smiles when Lorenz leans into him, trying to share a little of his warmth. “The political sphere wasn’t kind to her. I think she saw who she would become, if she stayed—and who she could be, with _him_. And she chose the latter. That’s what she sees, now, when she looks at me. Someone who forgets, over time, the reason they fought—forgets the people they represent.”

“If she thinks you’re capable of becoming corrupt, Claude von Riegan,” Lorenz says stoutly, “I hate to disparage your parents, but she must not know you very well.”

“Ha! Maybe you’re right. I’ve told you before, I think—my parents aren’t _bad_ people, just. They have a different view of the world. Maybe a more accurate one. But even if they’re right, I prefer my own vision to theirs. If we don’t believe we can enact change, _true_ change, without succumbing to the darkness ourselves… what else is there to strive for?”

Lorenz is quiet a moment. Then, with feeling, his whisper nearly caught and torn away by the wind, he says, “You’re a good man, Claude. I am proud to be your… your friend.”

_Your friend. And nothing more. _

“Thank you, Lorenz.” He nudges him back, resisting the urge to grab for his hand. “Your turn.”

“Right, right. Ask away.”

Claude adjusts his weight on the cold stone and claws his way back to their earlier thread of conversation. “When did you know for sure that you were gay? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Of course I don’t mind, it’s _you_.” Lorenz takes a breath. “To be honest… our five year reunion…”

“_Oh_?”

“Hush yourself, von Riegan, or I’ll never finish. By graduation I had started to doubt my long-held heterosexual identity, as I said. The next five years I was very busy with work, but that doubt continued to gnaw at me. I recall very clearly many sleepless nights trying to… to justify my attractions, to fit them into some kind of mold that my father would find acceptable. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in women, just that I had no time for dating—and so forth.

“Then the reunion happened and I was faced with many old friends who, unlike myself, had embraced their sexual or gender identities, even if they broke the societal mold.” He scoffs gently and shakes his head. “I remember seeing Felix and Sylvain holding hands across the quad where they used to study and play frisbee and argue so ardently, and I… I wanted that to be me. Desperately.”

Claude wants very badly to reach for his hand. But his arms are still folded protectively across his chest, chin tucked low against the wind, so he settles for leaning his backside against the wall and watching the play of lilac hair as it swirls against his ruddy cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Lorenz looks up at him, startled. “For what?”

“For taking that away from you. You should have had the time to… explore. To settle into it, like you said. Instead you’ve jumped headfirst into this farce with me.”

“You aren’t the _worst_ boyfriend a man could have,” Lorenz allows, eyes glittering, but Claude refuses to be baited.

“Still. I know I’m a poor replacement for the real thing.”

“Claude…” Some complex emotion bleeds across his face, confusion and sorrow and disapproval; but they settle at last on quiet resignation as he turns his back to the wind and settles next to him on the barrier. “Despite the fictitious nature of this arrangement, you have been nothing but kind and gallant. I meant what I said. If you are to be considered my first boyfriend, I could hardly hope to do better.”

“Always so complimentary.” Claude sighs and nudges his arm. “I’m freezing. Want to go get that coffee?”

“Hmm. Tempting. But I must admit I am loathe to be in public at the present moment.”

“You can just say _no_, you know.”

“But I don’t wish to say _no_, I wish to… compromise.” Lorenz tips his head in thought. “Surely you have the components for Almyran coffee at home…?”

“I thought you didn’t like my house,” Claude teases.

“I don’t _dis_like it, I simply don’t think it fits you. But that is irrelevant. As long as you are happy with it, it’s none of my business.”

Claude sighs. “Yeah, all right, I wouldn’t say I’m _happy_ with it… but that’s a conversation for later, when I’m not freezing my arse off at the highest point in the city. C’mon.” He stands and gives Lorenz a tug by his too-big sleeve. “Let’s go warm up, _boyfriend_.”

Lorenz snorts but doesn’t disagree, footsteps crunching in the gravel as he trails Claude back to his bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before u ask: yes i know judith isn't claude's mother, but I didn't feel like inventing OCs out of whole cloth, so here we are. it's MY whacky modern twist on fodlan, i can do what i want.
> 
> thank you SO MUCH for all the love on this, it's made writing it a joy!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz gets his hands dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter pre-written, which is the only reason I'm able to post this on the way back upstate from ANYC. It was my first con and I had a total blast--spent most of my time in the artist's alley, there was SO much good merch and art and amazing talented people, and I was totally blown away meeting a few people who had read this fic!!! Y'all are stunning humans!

_One week later_

Lorenz sets one foot into Claude’s house and pulls up short, nose twitching. “What on earth…”

“Lorenz! There you are.” Claude appears in the entryway, slightly out of breath, dressed in a heather grey tee and dusted with what looks like fine yellow sand. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting to the fun bit.”

“Do I smell… sawdust?” Lorenz asks, stepping tentatively into the foyer. He allows Claude to take his coat, watching him like a hawk as he hangs it fastidiously in the hall closet. “Claude, your hair is a wreck.”

“We’ve been busy.” Claude does him the courtesy of closing the closet doors before ruffling his own hair vigorously, sending little flecks of sawdust and woodchips in every direction. “Come see, come see!”

Lorenz allows himself to be dragged through the living room—every antique piece covered with tarp for protection, the walls soaked in vinegar and stripped of their tattered green brocade—and into the kitchen, where Hilda is sitting on the counter fighting with a tiny plastic package of screws.

“Hullo, Lorenz! Open this please, my fingernails are too long.” She thrusts the packet at him and he takes it without looking, eyes roaming the kitchen instead. Claude stands at the center of it, where the old oak island used to hold court over dark cabinets and antique china, arms akimbo and face flushed with pride.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It’s… certainly something,” Lorenz says, perhaps not as diplomatically as he could have. His voice echoes against the sudden vastness of the room. The last time he’d been here, a few weeks ago, he’d sat knee to knee with Claude at the island, sipping Almyran coffee and waxing poetic about all the changes he would make if the place were his, preening beneath Claude’s dark eyes as they glittered with intrigue. And now… “You did all this yourself?”

“Oh, Raph helped earlier. And Leonie. Don’t worry, I’m hiring actual contractors to redo the wiring. But I figured chopping up old wood and hauling it off would be easy enough.” He finds a stray nail on the dusty ground and coaxes it across the floor with his toe to rest in a pile of roughly-swept wood shavings. “A butcher block is gonna go here, where the island was, and I’m having the hutch moved out to make room for a new table and chairs…”

He wanders through the kitchen, ticking off the items on his list, and Lorenz tags along obligingly, muffling the occasional sneeze into the crook of his arm. The kitchen, once dark and drab, has been transformed into a war zone: cabinets torn out, walls bare and spackled, the floorboards nearly unrecognizeable under layers of sawdust and grit. The hutch that once held court against the far wall has been removed, revealing a rather charming brick facade and opening up the space admirably. Despite the mess, Lorenz can see the potential—and Claude’s enthusiasm is catching.

“I’ll show you the upstairs in a minute,” Claude says once the brief tour is complete. “Hilda convinced me to part with those horrible portraits—they’re going to the Derdriu History Museum, except for the one of Granddad.”

“And the couches?” Lorenz inquires.

“Yes, those are going, too. Don’t look so excited—I’m going to be out a _lot_ of furniture, so I’ll probably be sleeping on your couch for a week while everything gets sorted.”

“You’re always welcome, of course,” Lorenz says quietly, fully intending to make sure Claude sleeps in a _bed_ and gets at least eight hours of sleep for as long as he stays. He finally gets the package of screws open and hands them back over to Hilda. “You mentioned a ‘fun part’...?”

“Yes! The butcher block is here, actually—” He pushes open the door to the rear of the kitchen, which swings out onto a small brick patio leading down into the back garden. The item in question is propped against the outside wall opposite a table saw, still in its box. “It was just delivered, but we have to put it together.”

Despite having only just arrived, Lorenz is quickly press-ganged into service. Between him and Claude they manage to wrestle the box into the house, where Hilda is convinced to finish sweeping the floor—as task that, somehow, is completed without ruining her nails, or her hair, or her chic tracksuit. Lorenz can’t remember ever seeing her so dressed down.

“It’s only for today,” she insists when he mentions it, thumbing through the instructions with a dubious eye. “So don’t get used to it.”

“When is Ignatz coming over?” Lorenz asks. He stands at the edge of the room like an afterthought as Claude drags piece after piece from the box, trying not to admire the flex of his arms, the occasional glimpse of dark hair down the front of his loose-necked tee shirt.

“Half an hour or so. Plenty of time for you boys to get all mucked up.”

“Hil, don’t scare him off!” Claude laughs. “It was hard enough to convince him to go along with Igntaz’s idea.”

“I still don’t understand it,” Lorenz huffs. He plucks at the hem of his own shirt anxiously. He doesn’t really _own_ tee shirts—this scoop-neck tank top was the best he could do, paired with sturdy black leggings and ballet flats. He feels criminally underdressed next to Claude, who at least has jeans and proper work boots on. “Surely this isn’t the sort of attire one does a photoshoot in.”

Hilda sighs and snaps her gum. “It’s not a photoshoot, Lorenz, for the tenth time.”

“Then what else would you call it!” Lorenz snips. She only raises an eyebrow at him, unbothered by his rudeness, but Claude’s head rockets up from where he’s up to his shoulder fishing around in the box.

“Hey Hil, can you run upstairs real quick? I think I left my phone in the bathroom.”

Hilda snorts at the obvious ploy but slips off the counter and dusts off her bum. “Sure. Don’t bite each other’s heads off while I’m gone.”

She sashays from the room past a red-faced Lorenz and Claude sits back on his heels, looking serious. “Hey. Are you all right?”

_Fine_, Lorenz intends to say—but Claude’s expression, drawn up tight with concern, prevents him. “Just a little nervous. Excuse me, I should go apologize to Hilda.”

“Hilda’s fine,” Claude says. He stands up, dusting off his knees. “You weren’t this antsy at the actual interview, so what’s up?”

Lorenz bites at his inner cheek. “It’s foolish.”

“Of course it’s not. Explain it to me.” He drags one of the off-boarded bar stools out of the corner of the room and boosts himself up onto it, boots hooked into the rungs as if to ground himself amidst the sea of disorder. “Want me to call Ignatz and reschedule?”

“No, no. We shouldn’t do that to him, or to poor Dorothea.” Lorenz blows out a breath and folds his arms over his chest, wishing he had Claude’s leather jacket to keep him warm. He conjures the memory of it like an embrace and hopes that will be enough. “I am not accustomed to being… seen like this, I suppose.”

“Dressed down, you mean?” He doesn’t sound as surprised as Lorenz expected.

“Yes. And for a… an international magazine, no less. At least with _Vogue_ I was dressed in designer suits and silks and made up within an inch of my life—I’m not used to wearing lipstick, or any of the rest of it, but it felt like a mask I could hide behind." _It felt good_, he doesn't say; he's not quite ready to admit how right it felt, being pressed and pampered and dressed up into the queer icon society has declared him to be. "This…” He gives the soft, loose fabric of his shirt a resigned tug. “I may as well be naked. This isn’t the fashionable editorial spread I was envisioning.”

“That’s kind of the point, though,” Claude says, ever patient. “The way Dorothea explained it, her editors were thrilled with the casual ‘candid’ shots Ignatz got during the interview, and they want even _more_ of that. More of _this_, specifically… a little photo essay of us working together, getting our hands dirty, collaborating in our relationship and in politics.”

Ignatz had said something similar in his initial pitch, and yet hearing it from Claude solidifies the concept in Lorenz’s mind. “You make it sounds so sensible,” Lorenz mutters.

“Hey, if it turns out terrible, we can do something else. But at least give it a shot?” He pouts, actually _pouts_, sticking out his lower lip like a child. Lorenz resists the fleeting urge to knock him off the stool.

“Very well. But only because you begged so prettily.”

“Oh, honey, you haven’t seen _pretty_ yet.” Winking, Claude hops off the stool and pushes it back into place, out of the way, while Lorenz takes deep, silent breaths to recover from being smacked in the chest with such overt flirtation. “C’mon, let’s at least get this butcher block underway before the crew gets here.”

Mumbling acquiescence, Lorenz tucks his hair out of his face and comes to help.

Ignatz and his crew arrive shortly, right in the middle of their so-called _collaboration. _Hilda has deigned to remain upstairs, despite Claude “finding” his phone in his own pocket, so it’s just the two of them, already sweaty and covered in dust when Ignatz troops in with two assistants. They immediately begin setting up a tripod in the next room, but he doesn’t seem inclined to use it.

“It’s all about action shots!” he declares, wielding the camera like a blademaster flourishing his beloved weapon. As intimidation tactics go, it’s surprisingly effective. Lorenz tries not to visibly quail before the dark, unfeeling eye of the camera lens. “Close-ups, intimacy—heat of the moment stuff. Pretend I’m not even here.”

“You’ve come at the perfect time,” Claude says drily from where he’s sat spread-eagled on the floor, wrestling with the dinky L-shaped wrench that came with the butcher block. “Here, get this _intimate action shot_ of me pretending I know how to put prefab furniture together.”

Ignatz is not cowed, and happily takes more of his so-called “test shots” as Lorenz and Claude fumble their way through assembly. Lorenz is tense at first, but Ignatz is impressively unobtrusive, and Lorenz feels himself relaxing as they finish the butcher block and move on to cutting down the new cabinet doors down to size on the table saw.

“It’s gonna be great,” he insists, flipping the plastic protective glasses down over his eyes with a cheeky grin. “Just hold the end of this and look pretty, Lorenz—you’re good at that.”

Lorenz blushes, rolls his eyes to cover it, and hopes the quiet _snick_ of the shutter in the background didn’t capture his reaction to Claude’s easy praise.

Despite his misgivings, Lorenz _is_ having fun. He’s never done this sort of thing before: tear the innards of a house forcibly from its brittle skeleton, watching decades and decades of dust and accumulated vanity pried from the walls. Some if it—the antique furniture, the heavy gilt-edged mirror in the front hall, the oil portraits of four generations of von Riegan nobility—are carefully wrapped and removed to a truck for transportation. The rest of it is piled into bags and taken to the curb, or tossed into Raph’s flatbed in the back garden for removal.

Ignatz seems to have some preternatural gift for recognizing when his clients are feeling more comfortable, because eventually he starts giving more direction than “just do whatever feels natural.” For example, “Stand a little closer while you’re looking at blueprints,” and “Go ahead and put your hand on his waist, Claude—or his bum, I’m not picky.”

Lorenz opens his mouth to complain about _propriety_ and shuts it again when he feels a warm hand slide down his spine. “_Claude_.”

“Lorenz,” Claude replies, winking. “Don’t worry baby, I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Lorenz longs to point out that Claude’s hand so near to his backside is more likely to send him toppling from the ladder than keep him steady, but with their audience he decides it’s better not to mention it.

Ignatz is also not relegated to merely photography, it seems. Now and then he’ll ask casual questions as he lines up his shots or waits for one of his assistants to adjust the lighting, like, “How long have you wanted to be a politician, Claude?” and “Lorenz, do you think you’ll ever make him sit still long enough for an official portrait?”

“Seems silly without a title to go with it,” Claude says before Lorenz can answer that one. He stands back to admire the hefty painting they’re in the process of taking off the wall. It depicts the late Duke Riegan and his wife, a severe-looking woman whose name Lorenz forgets and whom Claude has never spoken of. It’s clear, whoever she was, that Claude and his mother inherited their twinkling green eyes from the Duke’s side of the family.

“I think you should,” Lorenz says, purely for the mock indignance Claude promptly delivers. He bats his eyes at him over the heavy gilded frame. “Your handsome face deserves to be immortalized in oils, darling.”

He considers it payback for the near-arse grope, but Claude returns the favor in spades later. They’re back at the bandsaw, trimming the ends off the new sheets of laminate that will be laid down in the kitchen to replace the battered, time-stained tile in front of the sink. This time Lorenz is the one with the safety goggles, a little bit blind and a whole lot deaf to the world around him with the shriek of the saw making its way through his earplugs. Claude’s hand on his forearm steadies him, guides his hand—a perfectly reasonable point of contact. But then he feels a matching touch at the small of his back, and breath against his neck as Claude steps closer, a line of heat bleeding through his thin clothes where their bodies are nearly pressed together. Lorenz’s eyes glaze over and he isn’t sure how he manages to finish the cut without botching it. When the job is done, Claude pulls back again like it was nothing, and Lorenz is sure he’s flushed and feverish with it for the next several minutes, captive to Igntaz’s curious camera.

Thereafter it becomes a game, each of them trying to one-up the other. Lorenz brushes sawdust gently from Claude’s hair, tipping his chin back with one hand while midafternoon sunlight slides golden through the window to illuminate his eyes. Claude kisses his abused knuckles after a particularly unlucky pass with a scrap of sandpaper. Lorenz retaliates with a slow, obvious glance up and down Claude’s sweaty, athletic form, practically undressing him with his eyes; Claude _accidentally_ slips a hand beneath Lorenz’s arm and into his shirt, grazing his ribs as he moves past him down the narrow upstairs hall.

By the end of the day, Lorenz thinks he’s had his hands on more of Claude than he has in their entire decade of acquaintance, and vice versa. Despite the shenanigans, however, they’ve bit a decent chunk out of the dizzyingly long laundry list of tasks to accomplish over the next few weeks, and Ignatz, to all appearances, is thrilled with his own exploits.

“I’ll make some quick edits tonight and send some preliminary stuff over to you tomorrow,” he promises over the celebratory pizza Hilda called in. “If you hate it, let me know—but I really don’t think you will.”

“I trust your artistic expertise,” Lorenz says, and he means it. Even if he himself looks foolish and gangly, Claude’s glowing strength and ready laughter alone will be worth the spread of sweaty candids gracing the magazine’s pages. “Do you know what’s going to be used for the cover?”

“Not yet,” Igntaz says evasively. “I have a few ideas, but it really depends on the editors. You know how it is.”

When they leave, taking Hilda with them, the house feels shockingly empty. Lorenz watches as the giddy cheer on Claude’s face drains away by inches, and takes himself off to the back patio to give him some space. Their conversation from the week before comes back to him as he slips through the gutted kitchen with its gleaming, freshly-laid floor.

_“You think I should renovate,” Claude says, leaning his chin on his hand as they sit together in the kitchen._

_“I think you should do what makes you happy.” Lorenz clinks his little ceramic cup against Claude’s, an inelegant toast. “If renovation will make that happen, I wholeheartedly support it.”_

_“Why are you always so diplomatic? Ha! You should have been the politician, not me.”_

_“Heaven forfend.” _

_Claude smiles, but beneath it lays a weight of seriousness, an iceberg lingering deep beneath the water’s surface. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve lived here for so long I’ve gotten used to it, but it’s… it’s not what I want. Not really.”_

_“If you require assistance, you know my door is always open.”_

_“Don’t say that unless you’re prepared to get your hands dirty, Gloucester.”_

_“For you? Always.”_

The evening is cool against his skin, a burst of relief after the dusty, sweaty funk of the interior. Lorenz drops to the brick and swings his legs out over the hedgerow, now aggressively trimmed back from its disorderly growth. The garden is still a bit of a tangle, the grass overgrown and in need of mowing, the ornamental cherry tree in the corner reaching pale, bare branches toward the silvering sky. If they trim it back, Lorenz thinks it might bear decent fruit come autumn.

He wonders if things will have changed, by then. Surely they must, by virtue of the passing seasons. Time moves on, and so do they, caught inescapably in its current. But after today he cannot fathom where he and Claude might be in five months. Professionally, he has some inkling—some hope. By then Claude will be preparing to give either a winning or a losing speech after election night. Lorenz certainly would prefer the former. As for himself, he will have hopefully settled into the routine of work, having adjusted to his new public and personal life as an out gay man. And hopefully—_hopefully_—this ridiculous rigmarole will cease and they will at least be able to live their lives separately, in peace.

_Separately_. No longer tied down by their romantic obligations. Lorenz feels a twinge of guilt, or maybe… regret? Surely not. He pulls his knees to his chest and rubs his eyes, flicking away stray bits of sawdust and shreds of wallpaper. He can at least admit it to himself, in the privacy of his own head: he has become accustomed to Claude’s more regular presence in his life. Accustomed, dare he say, to the… more physical aspects of their relationship. As the weeks pass and they settle into this new routine, it’s easier to walk with their hands entwined, to lean down and kiss his cheek or his forehead—or, when the situation calls for it, his lips.

Lorenz has never carried on in such a way. It took him long enough to come to terms with his own sexuality that physical intimacy—even such timid, virginal acts as holding hands—feels like an enormous barrier to be surmounted. But Claude makes it feel easy. Lorenz stares unseeing across the greenish-grey budding of the early spring garden just beginning to wake and wonders, a little sadly, whether anything afterward will quite compare with it.

He’s starting to consider going back inside to escape the evening chill—and his own maudlin thoughts—when the kitchen door swings open and Claude lowers himself to the patio’s edge. Lorenz politely pretends not to notice the redness around his eyes.

“Awfully dusty in there,” Claude says conversationally, voice a bit cracked. He stares at his upturned hands in his lap, sticky with scraps of wallpaper and littered with bruises from poorly-aimed hammer strikes. “How are you doing?”

“How am _I _doing?” Lorenz echoes.

“Yeah. You were in a bit of a funk, earlier. Just checking in.”

“I’m… good.” He says it hesitantly, testing the feel of the word on his tongue, and it comes out true. “Yourself?”

“Eh.” Claude shrugs and it brings their shoulders briefly into contact. “Been better.”

“You’re staying at mine tonight, yes?” Lorenz asks. He reaches across the negligible space between them to squeeze Claude’s workworn hand. “I insist.”

“Well if that’s the case.” A shadow of his usual good humor passes over him, and Claude laces their fingers together. “Hey, Lorenz.”

“Mm?”

“Don’t… react weirdly. Okay? I came out because I noticed something from the upstairs window.”

Lorenz feels himself start to go stiff and forcibly relaxes, heart suddenly racing for more sinister reasons than Claude’s hand in his. “How do you mean?” He turns a little, right leg bent against Claude’s outer thigh to face him head-on.

“There’s a car parked in the alley. Don’t look,” Claude says quickly before Lorenz can move. He reaches up and cups his cheek, drawing him in until their foreheads rest together, gritty from the day’s work. Lorenz swallows and tries not to hyperventilate. “You’re doing beautifully,” Claude soothes. “It might be nothing. I just. I don’t recognize it—sometimes the neighbors will park there if they have guests, maybe it’s one of them. But the windows are pretty heavily tinted and I just. Don’t want to take risks.”

“Hilda’s gone, hasn’t she.”

“Yeah.” Claude’s eyes hook into him, dark and apologetic. “Like I said, it might be nothing…”

Anger seizes suddenly in Lorenz’s chest. “We must draw them out.”

“What? Lorenz—”

“I am sick to death of this. Come here.” More businesslike than romantic, Lorenz grabs his face in both hands and plants a kiss on his lips. Claude relaxes into it after a moment, hands falling to Lorenz’s thighs.

It’s inelegant, and sloppy, but Lorenz doesn’t care. Through the veil of hair covering his eye he peers beyond the wrought-iron fence and finds the car in question. Claude seems to feel him craning, and moves to kiss his neck instead. Lorenz gasps a little, eyes fluttering half-shut. Claude’s attentions are _mostly_ for show, but now and then the brush of his closed lips is damp, breath hot beneath his jaw, and the disconnect pries open a tender fissure of want beneath his breastbone.

In the alley behind Claude’s garden, he sees movement behind the dark glass. The flash of a raised camera, not unlike the one that had captured so many earnest, honest moments between them earlier today. The brief spike of desire Lorenz feels at the clumsy, barely-there grope of Claude’s hand to his hip is doused like a candlewick.

“Enough,” he growls, pushing him away. Claude blinks at him in surprise, lips redder than Lorenz has ever seen. “Inside.” He kisses his mouth again, quick and harsh, and all but drags Claude back through the kitchen door and away from the unshuttered windows.

“Sorry—” Claude begins, touching his own lips with an uncertain hand, but Lorenz waves him off.

“You were right. Fucker.” Lorenz spits the word and drags an irate hand through his hair. “I saw the camera. It’s him.”

“That’s good, then?” Claude ventures, not even flinching at his language. “I mean, if we know what the car looks like, we have a better chance of avoiding—”

“But we can’t,” Lorenz interrupts again. He prowls through the empty kitchen to the living room like an irate panther, keenly aware of the tall windows with their heavy brocade drapery sent off to the burn pile with the rest. “We can’t avoid him. I know my father. He won’t rest until he has the evidence he needs to falsify our claims.”

“He’ll be waiting awhile, then,” Claude says firmly. He takes Lorenz by the arm as he paces past him and pulls him into an embrace—not an alluring one, hands roaming and mouths hungry, but a firm hold that tamps down Lorenz’s restless energy and lets him wilt forward into Claude’s body like an overwatered houseplant. “Relax, Lorenz. Breathe.” He presses a close-mouthed kiss to Lorenz’s bare, bony shoulder, at an angle surely invisible to their watcher. It’s not particularly intimate, but it _is_ tender, bracing him up when everything in him aches to crumble.

“I’m not panicking,” Lorenz insists. “I’m _angry_.”

“I know you are.”

“I want him out of my _fucking_ life.” Lorenz’s fingers are claws on Claude’s hips. A hysterical part of him wonders what the cameraman can see from this angle, a narrow shot through the garden and the windowpane to Lorenz himself, pinned in place with strong arms around his waist. “I just…” His voice breaks and he shoves his face into Claude’s neck, still rimed with sweat from the day’s work, breathing him in.

Claude says nothing, letting him work out the tangle of his head. After a minute or two, Lorenz begins to feel better, and then to feel bad. Here he is, having a small breakdown, while Claude is recovering from having spent the entire day shelling himself from the trappings of his grandfather, a man he’d looked up to for so long. He lifts his head and looks down at him, his stern, quiet face cast in shadow.

“Claude, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Claude says immediately. His eyes drop a few inches and then beyond the bow of Lorenz’s shoulder. “The car is gone.”

Lorenz sags. “Thank goodness.”

“We can use this in our favor, you know.” Claude looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I mean, it’s a bit wretched, but if we know we’re being watched and up the ante, er, physically speaking…”

Lorenz huffs an unhappy laugh, parting from him to drift toward the far wall where a hefty bookshelf refused to be budged for wallpaper stripping. “I suppose you’re right, though I know it’s a terrible sacrifice for you.”

“That’s not what I meant, Lorenz. Flames, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Shame prickles at the edges of his eyes, but he shoves it back mercilessly. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

The room goes very quiet. “How so?”

“I… I succumbed to a moment of weakness, and for some reason you allowed me to _use_ you to protect myself. I fail to see how any of it has been a benefit to you.”

“Lorenz…”

“I know that I’m right. You’re a good politician, Claude—a charismatic leader. You didn’t need my help to get where you are, and you certainly don’t need this… this messy, bothersome _farce_ acting like a chain around your ankle.”

“All right, that’s enough.”

Before Lorenz can move there are hands on him, turning him gently away from the bookcase to meet Claude’s eyes. “You’re not a burden to me, Lorenz. This _farce_, as you call it, has truly been good for me. I don’t just mean at the polls.” He swings them around so that Lorenz is looking at the room, empty of furniture, walls stripped down to sheetrock and still smelling faintly of vinegar. “Look around you. You’ve pushed me out of my comfort zone, made me see all the ways that I’m stuck in a rut of my own devising. You make me laugh when I’m stressed, you listen to me give terrible speeches over and over and over again until they sound right. _Lorenz_.” Claude spins him back and Lorenz succumbs to the momentum, helpless in the face of Claude’s ferocity. “I know I haven’t been the greatest friend to you, recently. And I’m sorry for that. If nothing else, pretending to be your boyfriend has made me realize it, and has given me a hundred excuses to spend more time with you. For that alone it’s all worth it. And if it helps you feel safe, feel protected from your jerkoff dad, so much the better.”

Lorenz stands quite still. The room still seems like it’s moving around him in the wake of Claude’s impassioned speech, and only Claude’s firm, gentle hold on his elbows keeps him from toppling over. “If you missed me,” Lorenz says quietly, “you only had to say so.”

Claude’s smile crumples like a wet tissue. “More fool me, then, huh?”

This time, when they embrace, it’s mutual and completely free of artifice. Claude’s arms are strong and sturdy around him, and Lorenz in turn wraps his broad shoulders in a death grip, nose buried indelicately into his hair. It’s sweaty and still sprinkled liberally with sawdust, despite his best efforts, but it smells woodsy and spicy and _homey_ in a way he can’t describe, and it soothes the anxious knot in the pit of his stomach.

“Can I confess something,” he whispers into that dark, riotous hair.

“‘Course.” Claude’s voice is muffled slightly in Lorenz’s shoulder, and he turns his head to the side to rest his cheek upon it instead. “What is it?”

_I think I’m falling in love with you_, he thinks, but the words are a stone in his gullet, one he can’t swallow past. Instead, sweaty-palmed and trembling, he whispers, “It’s been nice to have… someone. You know?”

Claude hums a query. “I think so.”

“I… am not accustomed to, er, displays of affection.” His face burns a little at the admission. “I didn’t realize how nice it was to have someone to hug occasionally, or… this is foolish,” he mutters, his courage failing him.

“No, go on. Please.” Claude starts to withdraw, perhaps to give him space, but Lorenz just holds him tighter and he subsides, laughing softly. This close, Lorenz can feel each flex of his diaphragm, the rumble of it deep inside his chest—it warms him like a toddy from the inside out. “All right, I won’t look, if that makes it easier. Are you saying you like it when I pat your bum in public?”

Lorenz rests his chin lightly on the top of his head to hold him still. “You’re teasing,” he chides. “That is, perhaps, an extreme example… I just mean to say, a certain level of, um, physical intimacy is… nice.”

“Yeah.” This time when Claude pulls back, Lorenz lets him, despite being terribly red in the face. Claude just smiles up at him with a peculiar blend of mischief and fondness. He’s still holding Lorenz by the hips. “I know what you mean. I’m kind of spoiled, I guess—Hilda’s pretty touchy with her friends, and I spend an awful lot of time just shaking people’s hands and rubbing shoulders with donors. Sometimes I get home at the end of the day and I don’t want to touch _anyone_. But no, I understand.” His grip tightens slightly when Lorenz makes to pull away entirely. “I can’t imagine how difficult it is to be as busy and driven as you are, and have no one to lean on at the end of the day. Physically or otherwise.”

“It’s a bit pathetic, I know,” Lorenz says. He realizes his hands are resting on Claude’s shoulders still, very nearly on his chest, and drops them self-consciously, finally prompting Claude to take his own hands away. He feels the loss as keenly as a sudden chill in his bones.

“Pathetic isn’t the word I would choose.” Claude reaches up and taps his thumb gently at the corner of Lorenz’s eye. It comes away wet. “You’re one of the bravest, kindest men I know.”

“I learned from the best.” Lorenz sniffs a bit and glances through the window. It’s getting dark, and he can no longer make out the details of the garden and the alley beyond. A little chill crawls up his spine. “Well.” He sighs heavily, shaking off the stupor of Claude’s arms around him, the aches and disillusionment of the day. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a glass of wine and some brainless television before bed. Shall we lock up here and head out?”

“Good idea.”

They are quiet as they move through the house, gathering their things. A lot has been said, and even more has gone _un_said; the dichotomy of it pulls and pushes through them like water, moving in the stately silence of a lone dancer completing their routine without an audience.

The drive to Lorenz’s apartment is quiet, too, undercut by the low hum of the radio. When they arrive, Lorenz insists Claude take the first shower. He uses the time alone to freshen up the place, tidying up the morning’s dishes and making over the bed with fresh linens. Little domestic tasks that soothe him even more, that slow his racing heart and calm the tangled web of his thoughts.

Then the door to the bathroom swings wide and Claude steps out, naked but for a towel around his waist, and Lorenz short-circuits.

He hasn’t seen Claude naked in _years_. In college he’d been a bit of a string bean, full of boyish energy and mischief that kept him running at odd hours—Lorenz had quickly gotten used to his flagrant disregard for modesty, and by senior year had barely batted an eye whenever Claude decided to change while Lorenz was still in the room. But time and a regular fitness regimen have been _very_ kind to him, and he is stringy no longer. His shoulders have filled out remarkably well, and a thick pelt of hair has formed on his chest, narrowing to a dark band that runs down his belly and disappears into the towel; his biceps bulge slightly with muscle, and he can see an unfamiliar tattoo now on display on his left shoulder, a shining sun embraced on one side by a crescent moon. Lorenz has been admiring his bare arms all day, if he’s honest, but seeing the entire package together is… doing things to him.

“Sorry,” Claude says, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s hair under his arms, too, dark like the hair on his head. Lorenz wants to rub his face in it. “I forgot to bring my stuff in with me. Shower’s yours, though, if you want it.”

Either he doesn’t notice Lorenz’s preoccupation with the ground, or he’s just being polite, because he doesn’t laugh as Lorenz gathers his own change of clothes and flees. He takes a bitterly cold shower, standing under the needle-like spray and counting backward from one hundred by prime numbers until he can put on sweatpants without embarrassing himself.

When he emerges, wrapped in a silky dressing gown for added security, he finds Claude sprawled on his couch with a glass of red, the deep brown V of his chest exposed by one of Lorenz’s fluffier bathrobes, eyes faintly glazed as the TV flickers soundlessly in front of him. Despite clearly being half asleep, he pats the cushion beside him and passes over the glass when Lorenz curls up obediently. In silent agreement, Claude flips the channel to an old black and white film, and Lorenz slumps until his head is on Claude’s shoulder.

He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later, empty-handed. Claude must have taken the wine back before he could drop it in his sleep. Claude himself is hardly better off, head tipped against the back of the couch and mouth open in a silent snore. He is very warm. And very sturdy. Lorenz’s eyes flutter shut again, and he sleeps.

><><

Things shift between them after that. Lorenz can’t quite put his finger on how, but the surface-level changes are undeniable. Claude is even more forward with him than before, regardless of whether they’re in public or not—he’ll hold Lorenz’s hand when they’re just sitting in the car, or embrace him when they part, even if the only other person around is Hilda. Lorenz, too, is more comfortable, not just with daily intimacies. He’s unafraid to call Claude up for a chat when he needs to forcibly remove his brain from corporate life, and no longer stalls out when he happens to catch sight of him less than fully dressed, something that occurs more often during the next few weeks as renovations continue in earnest at the von Riegan house.

Dorothea’s article has yet to hit the stands, but she’s hard at work on it, as evidenced by the occasional email or text he receives, mostly for clarification on one point or another. Some of her questions remind him of a particular thing he wants to do, and so one drizzly evening in the middle of the week, Lorenz leaves work and heads out to meet Claude at a cozy dinner spot, already primed for conversation.

He arrives first. Seeing the empty table, he deflates a little—but it just means more time to form his argument. Not that he anticipates _pushback_, necessarily, but it’s always good to be prepared. The server whisks by to pour him water and take his drink order, and he is left alone, pretending to peruse the menu as his leg jiggles impatiently beneath the table.

“Excuse me,” says a voice, startling him. He looks up, expecting the server back, but it’s another patron of the restaurant, a rather plain-looking man with mouse brown hair and an ill-fitting suit that sags around his thin shoulders.

“Er, hello.” He slides his polite, vacant mask into place a bit belatedly. Granted, he’s in a public place, but he hadn’t been prepared to deal with strangers this evening. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Lorenz Gloucester, right?” the man says. “Sorry for springing on you, I’m actually a huge fan of yours.”

Lorenz blinks. “A… fan?”

“Yeah! I’m just super impressed with your guts, you’ve really made a name for yourself with all of this. It’s hard to keep your head above water in the corporate world, believe me, I know. Would it be all right if I got your autograph? Sorry again, I know it’s a weird venue for that, I just saw you and thought I’d come by—”

Incredibly, he keeps talking, and Lorenz fumbles with a napkin and the pen in his pocket just to get the man off his back. But he just stuffs the napkin in his pocket without looking at it and keeps right on going.

“Lucky you, though, right? Doing pretty good in the pocketbook department _and_ the romance department.” He winks, but there’s no honesty behind it. Lorenz sits very still and tries not to recoil as the man leans closer, brushing against Lorenz’s arm in a way he probably envisions is _friendly._ “Say, you guys are like, steady, right? No _rocky waters_ after all this ‘coming out’ nonsense?”

A single droplet of comprehension _plinks_ into the still pool of Lorenz’s mind, and he realizes what’s going on. And yet he’s speechless—to ask, so brazenly, a _complete stranger_—

“We are quite happy together, yes,” he stammers, shaken more by the unapologetic boldness of this man than the moral quandary of telling a necessary falsehood.

“That’s good, that’s good,” the man says, not sounding particularly like he believes it. He still hasn’t even _introduced_ himself. What appalling manners. “It’s gotta be tough, having everyone know every little detail of your love life when it used to be this big secret—”

Lorenz is about to turn and gesture to the nearest server in hopes of a rescue when a hand clamps down on the man’s shoulder and Claude—blessed, beautiful Claude—appears like a grimly smiling spectre. “Hey there, Mister…?”

“Oh, uh—Jennings—”

“Mr. Jennings, nice to meet you, really wonderful. Lorenz, a friend of yours?”

“I’ve never met the man in my life,” Lorenz says through his teeth, too distressed to feign politeness.

“Great, so you’re just standing here harassing my boyfriend for no reason, then.”

“I was not _harassing_—!”

“Get out.” Claude’s hand clamps down a little more, a subtle detail, but Lorenz can see the way he tries to shrink away from Claude’s grip, to no avail. “Before I call security over and have you _thrown_ out.”

Jennings, if that really is his name, slinks away like a dog with its tail between its legs. The chatter of nearby tables picks up noticeably in volume again as Claude leans down and brushes a soft, slow, unselfconscious kiss to Lorenz’s mouth. He tries (and fails) not to melt into it, and Claude huffs a soft laugh through his nose, a warm brush of air against his cheek.

“Sorry I’m late,” he whispers. He pulls back but only an inch or so, studying Lorenz’s face. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Lorenz sits back in his chair and smiles weakly. “He caught me unawares, and I wasn’t sure how to get rid of him without causing a scene.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Scene-causing is my specialty.” He sheds his coat and drops into the opposite chair, knocking their legs together companionably. “You still good to order, or did you want to get out of here?”

“This is fine. Thank you.” He picks up the menu, looking at it in earnest this time. “I know reservations here are difficult to come by.”

“Even so. What did he say he wanted?”

“He claimed to want my autograph, but then didn’t seem particularly invested once he had it. I suspect he only wanted an excuse to…”

“To?”

Lorenz feels himself come over a dull red, hot with shame at the suggestion. “Come on to me.”

Claude gapes. “Seriously?”

“I know, I know, it’s difficult for me to believe as well—”

“That’s not what I meant. Just… this is hardly the venue, goddess. Walking up to someone sitting alone at a table and.” Claude stops his furious ranting and plasters on a smile when their server returns, blissfully unaware of the tension at the table.

By the time they’ve placed their orders and Lorenz has a glass of wine in front of him, he’s feeling more himself, enough to reach across the table and hold Claude’s hand casually as though they’ve done it a hundred times just like this. Claude just smiles at him slightly—no teasing, no glittering eyes. No facade. Lorenz’s heart skips in his chest at the thought.

“How was your day?” he asks to cover the sudden flutter of nerves. _It’s only Claude, for flames’ sake. _

“Oh, you know. Same old stuff. Put in a showing at a Derdriu College’s Model UN club, worked on some stuff for the summit… you’re still coming, right?”

“Of course,” he says, more confidently than he feels. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Claude’s grin has an edge of relief to it. Lorenz can sympathize. “It’s kind of a huge deal—which, in a way, makes it easier on you and I. There will be a ton of _way_ more important people there.”

“You have a few presentations to give, yes?”

“Yeah, but that’s easy. Just recycling some material and spitting it back out. A few of them will be in Almyran, which will be fun—translating my speeches always makes me think about them differently.”

As he talks, Claude’s thumb migrates to the back of Lorenz’s hand, stroking the skin softly. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, and Lorenz has no intention of stopping him.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you need from me?” Lorenz asks when he winds down long enough to break for a sip of water.

“Eager to put yourself in the spotlight, eh?” Claude teases.

“That’s… actually what I wanted to talk to you about, before that _man_ flustered me.” Lorenz sits up a little in his seat, making direct eye contact. “You remember during our interview with Dorothea, I mentioned I was interested in taking a more active role in your campaign?”

“I remember.” Claude looks back intently, absorbing his every word. “I was waiting for you to bring it up again—I wasn’t sure if it was genuine, or just a facet of the… you know.”

They _are_ still in public, Lorenz recalls, even though the tables are at a discreet distance from one another. But as they’ve learned, one never knows who might be listening. “Quite. I was being serious. I… honestly still feel like I hardly know what you do day to day, let alone the gaps that a significant other might be able to fill. I know I don’t have _quite_ your way with crowds, but I’m a decent enough public speaker, and I’m comfortable standing in front of an audience.”

“I would be delighted for you to get more involved,” Claude assures him, squeezing his hand. “I’ll talk to Hil and my campaign manager, see how we can work you in.”

“Ah.” Lorenz sits back in his chair a little, deflated. “That was easier than I anticipated.”

“What? You thought I was going to fight you on it?”

“I was prepared to defend my claims,” is all Lorenz says, delicately.

“Well defend away, if you want, but I’m predisposed to give you whatever you like.”

Lorenz blinks, baffled. “Why?”

“Because you deserve all good things,” Claude says lightly, smiling, but his eyes are sharp and serious. Lorenz flushes and drops his eyes, and his hand.

Their meal comes at length, and they take their time, savoring both the food and the conversation. The lulls are few and far between, but when they occur they’re relaxed and unfettered with expectation; their feet tangle together beneath the narrow table, and over dessert their hands find each other again, like two opposing magnets drawn together. Despite the public venue, Lorenz finds himself almost as relaxed as he would be in his own home, sucked into the fantasy they’ve woven together.

When they pay their bill and depart, arm in arm, for the valet stand, Claude leans down to his ear and whispers, “I’ve got something for you.”

A flush of heat sweeps through him unexpectedly, starting low in his belly and working its way up to his cheeks. Lorenz ducks his head to hide it with the veil of his hair. “Oh yes?”

“Well, two things. One is fun, one a little less fun but still necessary. Which would you prefer first?”

Lorenz sighs and rubs his fingers against the coarse wool of Claude’s coat, warm at the crook of his elbow. “Let’s have the fun one first. I’m not quite ready to face the real world just yet.”

It had rained, earlier. The cool spring air enfolds them as they wait for the car, dark and still, wet sidewalks reflecting the streetlamps in long spools of light like streamers set ablaze. Traffic is sparse on this side street, and after the warmth and bustle of the restaurant Lorenz feels as if he’s stepped into another world as Claude says, “Lys put a bug in my ear at the interview, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We’re not much for taking breaks, either of us… but maybe it’s about time we took one anyway. So I was thinking, after the summit…”

“A vacation?” Lorenz supplies. The idea is undeniably appealing—he can’t remember the last time he took a day off that wasn’t mandated by the company calendar. And even then he usually just stayed home, too tired to make the effort with travel plans.

“Yeah. We’ll be in Almyra already, so why not see some sights? Maybe visit my parents.”

Lorenz stands upright suddenly, pulling out of his slouch against Claude’s side. “Really?”

“They’ve been asking about you,” Claude admits. His eyes are elsewhere, mouth curled, almost as if he’s… shy? “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’ll understand—”

“I would love to meet your parents, Claude. I confess I’m terribly curious.” He reaches up, the gesture suspended somewhere between farce and fact, to smooth a stray curl back from Claude’s cheek. His thumb lingers in the same spot, almost a caress. “What kind of people would raise such a kind, brilliant man as you…”

“Flatterer.” Claude’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he leans into the touch nevertheless, even brushing his lips to Lorenz’s wrist. _Fake, fake, fake_ screams the voice of reason in his head. And yet he can’t resist the swell of warmth and satisfaction rising in him like the tide. “It’s settled, then. Lys will be pleased. And Hilda’s been hounding me to take some time off forever…”

The sweep of headlights passes over them and Lorenz drops his hand. “That’s the fun thing sorted, then. What about the other?”

“Tell you in the car.” Claude squeezes his hand and moves to collect the keys from the valet.

In the vehicle, Claude urges Lorenz to check his personal email, which he generally avoids these days unless he’s expecting something specific. There’s a new message waiting from Lysithea, with both Claude and Hilda CC’ed beneath. The subject reads: _Security Detail Recommendation. _

“Ah.” A bit of his good mood fizzles into the ether. “That took less time than I thought.”

“There’s only one name,” Claude says, pulling out into the main road. “But she comes _highly_ recommended. And I think she’ll be worth her weight in gold.”

Lorenz scans the email. The woman in question works out of a security agency called the Knights of Seiros, frequently hired out to the rich and famous for personal bodyguard work. Her rates are high, but her ratings are higher—the collection of reviews from her various clientele are all sparkling, with illustrious names he recognizes, among them…

“Dimitri hired her at one point?” Lorenz asks, astonished. _Highly recommended, indeed. _

“I think he was the one who forwarded her information, actually,” Claude says without taking his eyes off the road. “You might recognize her—she was the head of his security detail in school. They were all _very_ subtle and unobtrusive, but, uh. Being as close to him as I was meant I picked up on a few things.”

Lorenz lets the _close_ comment slide and scrolls to the end of the email, which features a headshot of the woman: one Shamir Nevrand. She’s petite but sturdy, with a blank expression and stark, desaturated features. There’s a certain beauty to her, in a sharp, dangerous sort of way, but she looks as though she could easily adjust her expression and disappear into a crowd. Lorenz doesn’t recognize her at all, in fact; but that only speaks to her skill.

“I’d like to interview her,” he says, reluctantly impressed.

“I thought you’d say that. You can email Lys back to set up a time and day. I’d like to be there too, if you don’t mind, unless our schedules conflict too badly.”

“Of course.” He’s a little surprised, but tries to hide it as he skims back up to reread the email. “I would appreciate your insight.”

He takes a breath to say something else and it’s knocked out of him, along with his phone out of his hands as Claude slams abruptly on the brakes. The car skids a few feet further than it should on the wet pavement—bright city lights flash past and swirl to a stop, and Claude yells _Fuck!_ just a split second before something slams into the car from the driver’s side.

And everything goes dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz conducts an interview. Claude entertains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for putting up with me, I couldn't resist a cliffhanger... hopefully this chapter makes up for it ;). I also structured this one a bit differently because there was a lot of ground I wanted to cover, so this is a Claude-and-Lorenz POV chapter instead of just Claude. (any inaccuracies are my own, i'm not a medical professional)
> 
> tw for drug use toward the end of the chapter, specifically marijuana.

Claude blinks awake to a brighter room than he usually favors, the cool, impersonal sheen of daylight spilling through drawn curtains. He squints against it, bleary-eyed. He doesn’t remember going back to Lorenz’s last night, but he keeps his own room well shuttered these days, so he can’t fathom where else he could be.

He blinks again, and the room starts to take shape. Not Lorenz’s after all, and not his own—he’s in a hospital room, propped up slightly in bed, and his head is fucking _killing_ him.

“Ow,” he says, or tries to. His mouth is dry as dust, and his nasal passages ache with every inhale. He should poke around for the call button, he knows, but somehow he can’t bring himself to lift his hand to do it.

Something stirs at the edge of his periphery, and then there are footsteps and Lorenz appears in his field of view, looking rumpled and exhausted and red-eyed with relief. “Claude.” He bends over him, and for a single, heart-swelling instant Claude thinks he’s about to be kissed. But Lorenz just folds a palm over his forehead and says, “How are you feeling? Shall I call a nurse?”

“Mmf. Not yet.” He glances around, trying to locate his personal items—his phone, wallet, keys—and land on the little bed stand instead, where a styrofoam cup sits just out of reach. “Can you…”

Lorenz perceives the question before it even leaves his lips. He takes the cup himself, holding the straw to Claude’s lips. He would protest the coddling, if he weren’t parched. The water is room temperature and tastes faintly of plastic, but it gets the job done. He drains nearly half of it before subsiding with a wince. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Lorenz returns, rather unfairly Claude thinks. He forces his brain to think around the throbbing in his skull, reaching for the shreds of last night.

“There was… that guy. That creep. We had dinner…” Like lightning, the memory returns to him in a brittle, fully-formed instant. The truck coming at them from an angle in the middle of a busy intersection, the skid of tires on wet pavement. The spike of adrenaline as he turned the wheel. “Some idiot ran a red light,” he scowls, then subsides when the reality of it sinks in. “Was anyone else hurt? You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lorenz soothes, a bit alarmed—Claude realizes he’s digging his hands into Lorenz’s forearm and eases his grip. “A bit shaken and bruised, but fine. The other driver is also, apparently, doing just fine, considering they drove off in a hurry after T-boning us.”

“They _what_?”

“The police are reviewing footage from the traffic cameras to try and find out who it was. But don’t worry about that now. You’ve got a broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs—and a concussion, most likely, though I’m relieved your speech and memory are unimpaired.” Lorenz is very pale, Claude notices suddenly, and his hand trembles faintly on the sheets despite his firm voice. “You need to focus on resting.”

“The summit—”

“Is a month away, plenty of time to get back on your feet. But only if you _rest_.” Lorenz gives him a stern look and stands. “I’m going to inform the nurse’s station that you’re awake.”

“Wait—Lorenz.” He reaches out clumsily with his right hand, wincing as the motion jars his entire body. Whatever pain meds they’re pumping into him are keeping the breaks and bruises to a dull roar, but he can tell that they’re going to hurt like a bitch once the IV comes out. “Can you…”

Lorenz takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “What do you need?”

Claude grimaces. “This is embarrassing, but can you help me get to the bathroom?”

Lorenz laughs at this, but Claude doesn’t protest—he’d rather see him laugh than that awful, haunted expression he’d been wearing before. With patient hands, Lorenz helps him out of bed, dragging the drip behind them, and walks him gingerly to the bathroom. There’s an awkward moment where Lorenz hovers, uncertain whether to stay or go. But Claude shoos him out and relieves himself with the door just slightly ajar, embarrassed but too tired and aching to think much of it. He sits on the toilet a little longer than necessary, afterward, cataloguing his various aches and scrapes with a curious finger; but finally stirs when Lorenz coughs and asks, politely, whether he needs any help. Claude brushes him off to sort his gown out and clumsily wash his right hand, the other arm held immobile in its cast.

By the time he gets back into bed he feels like he’s fallen down two flights of stairs head-first, and makes no protest when Lorenz goes to fetch the nurse. The next half-hour or so is spent answering a litany of questions to determine his soundness of mind, and a doctor comes in a little later to inspect him. Lorenz remains through it all, sitting quietly on the pull-out couch by the window. It does not look as though it’s been used, although it’s midafternoon now and Lorenz has clearly not left his side all night.

When he is left alone at last, sleep plucks at him, sweet and cajoling. But Claude forces his eyes open stubbornly and turns to watch Lorenz as he putters about, refilling his water cup and tidying the bed stand.

“You should go home,” Claude rasps, and Lorenz stills. “You need to rest.” What day is it? Thursday? And yet Lorenz never once made a peep about missing work.

“I don’t…” Lorenz says, but doesn’t finish. He sits his bum on the edge of the bed and leans over him, a delicate frown marring the perfect smoothness of his brow. Despite his obvious weariness, his rumpled clothes and flat, lifeless hair, he’s still beautiful. Claude feels it rise beneath his tongue to tell him so, and only Lorenz’s next words prevent him. “I am uncomfortable leaving you alone. But I suppose, if you’re feeling like yourself…”

“I’m feeling like a nap,” Claude tells him. He submits to being petted, throat tight as Lorenz strokes his hair and settles the collar of his hospital gown. “And you… you should sleep. You look rough.”

“Thank you,” Lorenz shoots back with a wry twist of his lips. “I suppose if _you_ have noticed it, in your state, I truly am a fright.” His thumb grazes the arch of Claude’s brow and he bites his tongue, aching, silent. “Very well. I should shower and change, it’s true—I have a meeting with Ms. Nevrand in a few hours. I am sorry you won’t be present for it, but I feel a sudden urge to secure her services as quickly as possible.”

“Hilda.” He swallows his guilt at not having inquired sooner. “She’s okay?”

“Physically, spiritually, or emotionally?”

“_Lorenz_.”

“She’s on the warpath, naturally—she’s been coordinating with the local police station to get a suspect pinned down. Raphael is in a state himself, says he should have been the one to drive us, but of course I told him you wouldn’t hear of such a thing.”

Claude winces. “I should talk to him, try to calm him down.”

“He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about anyone or anything else apart from healing.” Lorenz withdraws his hand from Claude’s cheek and rises, straightening his suit coat halfheartedly. “Sleep as much as you can, and try not to give the nurses too much trouble, all right?”

Claude pouts, eyes already slipping shut now that the distraction of Lorenz’s presence is beginning to withdraw. “What if I need help going to the bathroom again?”

“I am not visiting you just to escort you to the toilet, Claude von Riegan,” Lorenz says sternly. Still, he bends and brushes a kiss to Claude’s forehead, warm and dry, and Claude’s heart sings. “Sleep well. I’ll be back later today.”

Claude mumbles at him to _be safe_, and is asleep before the door shuts behind him.

><><

Shamir Nevrand is even more intimidating in person than Lorenz had anticipated. She is petite, 5’4” according to her dossier, but she stands brusque and sturdy in her tidy black ankle boots and crisp black suit, hair pushed to one side to reveal a side cut and an ear studded with silver hoops. Her grip, when they shake hands, is firm and uncompromising, as is her indigo gaze. Despite the fact that Lorenz is the one interviewing _her,_ he can’t help but feel like she is measuring him with that dispassionate stare.

“Mr. Gloucester,” she says, clipped but warm. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Lorenz, please. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Mr. Gloucester is, in fact, my father.” He gestures for her to proceed him further into the living room, where Lysithea is waiting on one of the couches, ankles crossed primly and hands folded in her lap. “Please, Ms. Nevrand, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Ice water, if you’re offering. And Shamir will do just fine.” She moves into the living room and settles at a couch adjacent Lysithea, who makes her own introductions. Lorenz fetches a tray of water glasses for all of them and settles in beside Lysithea with a barely stifled sigh of relief.

“You come highly recommended,” he begins, once pleasantries are out of the way. “But I’m eager to hear what you have to say about your own particular talents.”

“Of course.” She takes a single sip of water and sets it down, seemingly disinterested in partaking further. “As you may already know, my two highest priorities when taking on a new client are discretion, and trust. Your personal welfare, of course, is at the foundation of any contract we may sign, but any ex-Army fool can find a gig as a bodyguard. When I’m on a contract, my client is my top priority. That means we communicate; we check in; we work from the very beginning to be a single unit, so that I may be as useful and unobtrusive to your daily life as possible. Discretion, of course, is a given, and trust goes hand in hand with that. You trust me to know how best to protect you, and I trust you to follow my direction in the event that such direction is necessary, no questions asked.”

She pauses, at last, not out of breath in the least. Lorenz takes a gulp of water to settle himself. “If you don’t mind my asking, I’m surprised, with your qualifications, that you were able to interview on such short notice.”

“I take only one contract at a time, if that’s what you mean. And I am very particular about my clients.” She smiles thinly, thin as a knife’s edge. “Call it a… moral qualification. I only work with people who I feel truly need my services, and whose work I believe is beneficial to society. I receive far more requests than I answer.”

Though Lorenz barely knows this woman, he finds himself warming slightly at the indirect praise. “You mentioned… following directions. I suppose you were referring to emergency situations?”

“Primarily, yes. In the past I have taken on clients with a great deal of visibility in the public and political spheres, who for whatever reason could not proceed with a traditional security detail. In such cases I work closely with whomever their usual security is to develop plans of action in case of emergency.” She stares at him coolly from across the coffee table, once again weighing him, the scales of justice poised precariously behind her eyes. He wonders which way he falls. “There are, of course, other individuals who do not come equipped with a regular security detail, such as yourself. In that case I would sit down with my client directly and work out in advance what sort of measures they are comfortable with me taking.”

“Such as…?” Lysithea prompts, when it becomes clear that Lorenz is too busy thinking about what _measures_ Shamir could be referring to to reply.

“I have a firearm license, as well as extensive martial arts training. And a _very_ well-established legal team.” She smiles, all teeth and no humor. “If your life is ever in danger, I need to know in advance, if possible, how far to take the extents of my contract.”

Lorenz clears his throat, a bit pale. “I would hope that anything particularly, er, gruesome would not be necessary…”

“Pardon my forwardness, Lorenz,” Shamir says briskly, “but if I’m not mistaken, you and your partner were sideswiped in traffic yesterday and the police have not yet ruled out foul play. It is not out of the realm of possibility that someone would have intent to injure you, or pose a threat to your life. It would be my job to neutralize that threat in the cleanest and most efficient way possible.” She glances to Lysithea. “Rest assured, legal fees are tied in with my rates.”

Lysithea asks a few more probing questions around this topic while Lorenz sips his water and accustoms himself to the idea as much as he can. If either woman notices his shaking hands, they don’t mention it.

It still hurts to take deep breaths. He had been deemed healthy and whole by the paramedics who responded to the incident, apart from some bruising, but he knew he’d be feeling the physical effects of the accident for another few weeks at least—not to mention the emotional. And _he_ had gotten off lightly. He thinks of Claude’s face, ashen, blood dripping down from his temple as he slumped in the driver’s seat, his nice dinner suit littered with shattered glass. His weary, heavy-lidded eyes as he tried to converse normally with Lorenz in the hospital room, and his obvious pain despite the medicine being fed directly into his veins. Lorenz closes his eyes. Inside him, that fluttering, anxious part of him solidifies, hard as ice.

“When can you begin?” he says—rather rudely, on the heels of a comment Lysithea had just made, but neither of them bats an eye.

“Tonight, assuming the money and the papers go through. Which I have no doubt they will.”

He looks to Lysithea and raises a single eyebrow. In return he receives a discreet nod.

“I’ll go through the paperwork with your agency and have signatures sent out in a few hours,” Lysithea says, standing. She extends her hand to Shamir, who stands also and shakes it once. “I look forward to working with you, Ms. Nevrand.”

Lorenz shakes her hand also, and escorts her to the elevators with the few remaining shreds of his aplomb. When he returns, Lysithea is already on her laptop, composing emails and sending notes off to the appropriate parties. He leaves her to it, moving to the kitchen to refill his glass from the tap and gulp it down whole.

“You should sleep,” Lysithea says a few minutes later. She appears on the other side of the bar and boosts herself up onto one of the stools, propping her chin in her hand to look at him. “You didn’t catch a single wink last night, did you?”

“I… dozed,” Lorenz says defensively. “Thank you for organizing this so quickly, Lysithea. I don’t want to know how many strings—well. Suffice it to say that I am in your debt.”

Lysithea’s mouth firms. “I think we’re all a little shaken. I didn’t want to wait. Speaking of which.” She arches a stern eyebrow at him. “You’ve stretched yourself thin enough, Lorenz. You need sleep, and a proper meal. I’ll wake you when I need you to sign things.”

Lorenz blinks at her, surprised and touched. “You’re staying?”

“May as well. I can work just as well here as I can from the office—better, in fact. And this way I can keep an eye on you and make sure you _actually sleep_.”

Too tired to put up much more of an argument, Lorenz allows her to bully him out of his suit coat and shoes and into bed. The feeling of sheets enclosing him feels like slipping into a tender oasis. Before his eyes shut for good, he fumbles for his phone and fires off a quick text.

**[Lorenz] Interview went well. I hope you’re feeling better. Xx**

He wakes, delirious with exhaustion, some hours later to Lysithea coaxing a stylus into his hand. He scrawls his name without looking and glances at his phone. There are two messages waiting for him, one from Claude and one from his newest employee.

**[Claude] I’m dandy. Going back to sleep. I’ll tell Dima thanks for the recommendation. **

**[S. Nevrand] Lysithea has briefed me and given me a keycard. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning at eight o’clock to go over details face to face. My first recommendation comes free of charge: self-defense classes. They work wonders for esteem and self-determination. **

Lorenz composes some kind of polite response—he hopes—and falls back onto the covers, staring at the ceiling. So. It _had_ been a direct recommendation, from the King of Faerghus no less. And Claude’s old… beau. He wonders what Dimitri thinks of this whole thing. He hasn’t ever had the courage to ask Claude about it.

When Claude is feeling better, perhaps. For now, there are more pressing things to worry about. Eyes aching, stiff from sleeping in his trousers, he crawls out of bed and changes into sleep pants and a robe before peering into the main room. Lysithea is asleep on one of the couches, her petite form barely taking up half the cushions. Someone, Raph or Hilda perhaps, must have run a change of clothes over for her, because she’s wearing a fuzzy pink twinset and a sleep mask with avocados printed over the eyes. He’ll ask about the “briefing” later, then. He tiptoes in, arranges a light blanket over her legs, and removes himself again, allowing himself at last to slide into a deep sleep.

><><

The next month is one of the most frustrating of Claude’s life. He remains in the hospital for another few days before the doctor deems him fit for release, and then he is transferred to his own lonely house—lonely despite Hilda hardly ever leaving his side, not to mention the hired nurse who pays house calls twice a day to ensure he’s healing properly. Despite his complaints, he is not permitted to stay with Lorenz, who is suddenly extremely busy and claims to “not have the time to babysit you.” Claude is more hurt by the statement than he would like, and is not placated when Hilda informs him it’s because he’s started a gym membership with a self-defense training regimen built in, and is helping run campaign errands. Nothing serious, Hilda assures him, and refuses to respond when Claude asks if Lorenz is being compensated for his time and efforts.

There is a bit of a media buzz surrounding the accident, but Hilda and Lorenz keep him mostly inured to it. Thus he is left largely too his own devices, cooped-up and restless in a house strung halfway between two worlds, empty of most of its previous decor and only just beginning to take on a shape of its own. The weather is improving, but he finds himself hesitant to spend any time on the back patio, and so he paces the upstairs hall instead, looking out of windows and waiting for his cast to come off.

He knows he’s driving Hilda crazy, but he can’t help it. Already he’s had to miss two public engagements that he’d been aiming to use as leverage against his more aggravating political opponents, and there’s a speech he’s been preparing to give at a town hall meeting, followed by a Q&A, but Hilda has already made it plenty clear that he’s not to tax himself and that they’ll reschedule. His strident arguments fall on deaf ears, and Lorenz, when Claude rings him up to complain, is of the same mind as Hilda—so he is left defenseless before their barricade, cooped up and unable to take any action on his own without someone passing it through three chains of approval first.

He’s trying to microwave chicken nuggets one-handed toward the end of the second week, too impatient to order in and sick of doing busywork, when there’s a knock on the door. He goes still and silent like a hunting dog, ears pricked for the slightest hint of its source. Hilda left a short while ago for the evening, and his humble request for Lorenz to come over and join him for dinner had been (regretfully) rebuffed, so that narrows down the list of potential visitors considerably. And anyway, they both have keys.

The knock comes again, patient and unhurried. Claude leaves the nuggets lukewarm on their plate and tiptoes through the quiet house to peer carefully through one of the tall windows that looked out onto the front stoop.

His jaw drops. In an instant, though his body protests at such rapid movements, he’s unlocking the door and throwing it wide to admit a waft of cool, wet night air. “_Dima_?”

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus, stands grinning on his front steps in the dark of early evening, wearing a nondescript wool peacoat against the Leicester damp and shadowed by the hulking, familiar shape of his bodyguard and best friend. “Hello, Claude. Er… surprise?”

“Surely this is some kind of… of political breach of misconduct,” Claude says, still too flabbergasted to even smile properly—but he backs up anyway, ushering them inside. “Please, please, come in. How on earth did you arrange _this_, your Highness?”

“Claude.” Dimitri gives him a reproachful look, already unbuttoning his coat. Dedue steps in after, gives a short nod, and leaves them alone in the front hall, presumably to comb the house for… whatever it is bodyguards comb for. “I heard about the accident, and when I asked Hilda if it would be all right if I dropped by while I was in town, she said _yes, please, take the annoying bastard off my hands_. So here I am.”

“What are you in town _for_? Nevermind, I’m sure you can’t answer that.” Claude moves instinctively to take his coat and pulls up short, wincing and tugging at his sling. “Sorry, I’d play the pretty host but I’m a bit laid up.”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” Dimitri turns in place, taking in the new paint, the rubber fig sitting tastefully beside the coat rack, the old-fashioned wooden pocket doors with their fresh layer of polish. “You’ve been redecorating, I see.”

“Slowly but surely. The front hall’s the least of it.” He gestures toward the closet. “You can hang your coat up, if you want. I assume you’re staying for more than a few minutes?”

“If you’ll have me,” Dimitri says agreeably. He tucks his hair behind his ear, subtly straightening the eye patch that cuts a dark band across his brow, and shrugs out of his coat. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re busy.”

“Just finishing up dinner,” Claude lies. Thank goodness he hadn’t gotten far enough into the process for the whole house to smell of processed chicken and damp breading. “Can I get you anything to drink? Or Dedue?” He craned his neck to look for him, but there is no sign—faintly, from upstairs, he hears the floorboards creak.

“He’s just being extra cautious, don’t mind him,” Dimitri says into the closet as he hangs his coat, muffled and apologetic. “He’s a bit on edge for… well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take a drink, yes, but only if you join me. You’re not forbidden from partaking?”

“Nah, I’m just down to the occasional Tylenol.”

He leads the way through into the kitchen, accepting Dimitri’s earnest compliments over the warm, neutral stucco shade of his living room, so much brighter and more welcoming than the forest green brocade. The leather couch and matching chairs are sturdier than the living room’s previous occupants, but with the enormous floor-to-ceiling bookshelf moved upstairs and the television moved over the hearth rather than being stuffed into the corner near the windows, the room feels less claustrophobic than it had before.

In the kitchen he allows Dimitri to putter around, pouring them both whiskey over ice before settling at the gleaming butcher block, still hardly used since its construction. Claude follows his lead in small talk, allowing him to ask a variety of light, unobtrusive questions about the renovation, but eventually even Dimitri’s endless well of patience runs dry.

“So,” he says, eye glittering with poorly-suppressed intrigue. “Lorenz, eh?”

Claude sighs, deflating with a rueful smile. “Yeah. Who would’ve guessed, right?”

“Well, not me, but Sylvain tells me I’m hopeless with these things. Everyone else hardly seems surprised.” Dimitri eyes him over his tumbler, clever curiosity melting into concern. “I did have… one question.”

“Just the one?” Claude chirps, and regrets it when Dima’s firm mask doesn’t so much as crack. “Listen, I know what you’re about to say, and I… well, let’s just say there’s some things we’ve, ahem. Adjusted. For the public.”

“So you swear on your life that the last time we were, er, intimate…”

“I was single. Yes.”

“Two years ago.”

“Yup.”

Dimitri squints at him. “How long have you been dating, exactly?”

Claude sighs and resigns himself to the inevitable. “We haven’t. Been dating. Not, um, for real, I mean.”

Dimitri’s restlessly tapping fingers go still as the grave. “A… publicity stunt, then?”

“Of sorts. It was partly to protect Lorenz from his father, partly to boost my own popularity.” He grimaces to say it out loud, in front of a man like Dimitri, who has always favored a direct and honest approach in his own public dealings—at least as much as his longsuffering aides will allow.

“So you’re not actually his partner.”

“Not… as such.” Claude drops his eyes to the hearty grain of the butcher block, following its contours in an effort to feel his way through the sudden minefield that’s sprung up between them. “But I have a great deal of respect for him, and it was no hardship to… to join forces, I suppose.”

“No hardship?” Dimitri asks, arching a single blond brow in disbelief. “You look a bit hard up at the moment, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“That’s different. That was an accident.”

“Have the police declared it so?”

“...not yet. But that doesn’t mean it was, I don’t know, planned with malice aforethought.” Claude rubs the bridge of his nose. “If you have something to say to me, Dima, I wish you’d just come out and do it.”

“What makes you think I have _something to say_?”

“You have that look, like you disapprove.”

“I don’t… disapprove, exactly. How you conduct your personal affairs is none of my business.”

“_Dima_.”

“What? You know what I mean. Just because we have, or _have_ had, a standing… arrangement of sorts… doesn’t make me entitled to every detail of your life.” He settles back on his stool, smiling a little. “I thought you said you were considering entering the dating scene again. So what happened?”

“I got busy,” Claude mumbles. “This campaign has been a lot of work, and I… haven’t had much time for casual dating. Besides which, being thrust into the spotlight means it’s harder to have a truly private life.”

“Unless you’re projecting that private life onto every newsstand tabloid and late night talk show.”

“Oh, stop. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“It is, a little.” Dimitri smooths his smile back with one considering hand. “The truth is, I was happy for you, when I heard the news… if a little concerned, given our history. I guess I’m a little disappointed. You deserve someone who can dedicate themselves to you fully, Claude.”

“So you’ve said before.” Claude sighs and waves away the wrinkle of apology already forming between his groomed brows. “That’s not a complaint. I’m not… I don’t begrudge you anything, you know that. What we had was always just for fun.”

“Does Lorenz know about… any of it?”

“About us, you mean? He knows about our school days. I’ve never mentioned, erm…” He laughs nervously, and Dimitri sips innocently at his drink. They’ve never really put a name to it—how could they? It’s never been particularly serious, and anyway, how does one say the words aloud _I was fuckbuddies with the Crown Prince of Faerghus? _“Why, do you think I should?”

“Well, if it was real, I would say yes. It only seems fair. But considering this ruse of yours…” Dimitri looks slightly uncomfortable. “I suppose our history does not need to be shared. I do still feel a strange instinct to apologize to Lorenz, however.”

“You do? What for?”

“For, well…” His cheeks glow pink, but he’s nearly thirty now, and Dimitri at least has the maturity to say, with an utterly straight face, “for conducting the occasional bout of phone sex with his boyfriend.”

“His boyfriend who isn’t actually his boyfriend,” Claude corrects, though he’s slightly flushed now, too. He glimpses Dedue pass by the kitchen to stand at the front door and leans in, lowering his voice. “Hey. Are you and Dedue, uh…”

Dimitri grows even redder, if possible. “I am his employer. It would be improper…”

“Improper for _what_?”

Dimitri gives him a reproving look. “For us to be engaged in a public relationship.”

His eyes widen. “So you _are_—”

“Hush! Please, it is… relatively new, still. It’s not meant to be very widely known. Even with our friends.” Dimitri’s smile grows strained. “I would have thought to confide in you in this, and commiserate, but it seems that shared experience is… not what I thought.”

Claude winces. “I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

“It is.” Dimitri sighs and knocks back the rest of his whiskey. “More difficult than you know, it would seem.” _Ouch_. “But we do what we must for the sake of our countries, is that not so?”

Claude nods, hiding his lack of an answer behind his offer of a refill. The cold fingers of shame caress his nape as he pours. Dimitri is living through the very thing he is pretending to have suffered, and here Claude is making a mockery of it, trawling his feigned struggle through the media like a poorly trained animal tracking mud across a gleaming floor.

“For what it’s worth,” Dimitri says on the upswing of his pour, his stern face cracked by good humor, “you make a very handsome couple.”

“Thank… you,” Claude stammers, and he tries not to blush when Dima laughs and clinks their glasses together, an inelegant toast.

><><

“Hello, Lorenz. It’s been a long time.” With a waft of sweet apple-mint and a smile, Mercedes envelopes Lorenz in a soft, unselfconscious embrace. She’s taller than he remembers, but is still able to tuck her head neatly beneath his chin, as easily as if they’d spoken regularly every day for the last five years. Lorenz freezes up only for a split second before relaxing into it with a pat to her shoulder.

“Mercedes. You’re looking very well. How is your wife?”

“Annie’s just wonderful, thank you for asking! She said to say hello, by the way. May I take your coat?”

“Er, yes. I hope I didn’t dress too formally, I wasn’t sure what was expected…”

“You look very handsome,” Mercedes says serenely, which doesn’t answer his question at all, but he decides that about as much clarity as he’s likely to get at this juncture. “Everyone is very eager to meet you.”

“I hope it’s not a big disappointment to have me instead of Claude.”

“Not at all! We’re delighted to have you. How is your dear man?”

“He is—doing better,” Lorenz says. “He was sorry to miss this engagement.”

“You must tell him we were sorry to hear about the accident, and hope he gets well soon.” She hangs his coat neatly on the old-fashioned trivet rack next to her own, a delicate fawn wool that’s nearly a match for her hair. “Can I get you some tea before we go out and meet the kids?”

“Are… are they already assembled? I don’t want to keep anyone waiting…”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that! They tend to trickle in between six thirty and seven, so we have a little more time. They’ll be keeping themselves occupied with games or homework.” She turns to the tidy sideboard that stands against the far wall of her office, a small but homey room that smells of freshly-baked cookies. Above it and below are bookshelves, but space has been made in between for a little electric kettle and some mismatched ceramic mugs. “What would you like? I have lavender, honey-mint, Almyran pine…”

“The pine needle, please,” he says hastily. It’s not his usual choice, but he finds himself longing for a memory of Claude. Maybe, if he steeps himself in it for long enough, he’ll attain a measure of his charisma and easy manner—something Lorenz sorely needs in order to get through the next few hours.

“Here you are,” Mercedes says, passing him a steaming mug that reads _A+ Teacher_ in cutesy block letters. “There’s honey, if you like.”

Lorenz declines and sits primly at the edge of the extra chair in Mercedes’ office while she chats about her work. She’s only recently accepted a post as the Headmistress of the infamous Leicester Preparatory School, but it’s clear she’s flourishing beneath the weight of that responsibility. He’d been a little surprised to hear she’d moved to the outer fringes of Derdriu when she first called—last he heard, she’d been happily ensconced in Duscur, doing humanitarian work with her wife. But apparently she was recently reunited with her brother, who’d been out of contact for well over a decade, and after some consideration decided to move back to Fódlan to reconnect with her only remaining family.

“How are you finding Derdriu?” he asks politely, settling back into easy small talk as a balm to his nerves.

“Oh, it’s just been delightful! I’ve never lived so close to the ocean, it’s really a treat. And so many of our old school friends live here, or are often passing through, which is so nice. Are you and Claude coming to our class reunion, this summer?”

“I—um, believe so,” Lorenz stammers. He does the math quickly in his head. “Depending on how the campaign is going, that is. I’m not entirely familiar with his schedule that far out.”

“It’s going well so far, isn’t it?” Mercedes asks earnestly. She settles behind her desk for lack of a second chair, soft hands curled around her own mug of tea. “Annie and I have been following it quite closely, even before we moved—we’re all so very proud of him. And proud of _you_.”

Lorenz flushes and drops his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve done anything particularly deserving of your good opinion, but I thank you.”

“Oh, Lorenz!” she laughs, delicate as a tinkling bell. “Don’t be silly. You did a very brave thing, coming out publicly. In your position that can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” he admits. “Thankfully I have a… an admirable support network. I know everyone isn’t so lucky.”

“That is very true. Which is why I’m so glad you agreed to come tonight! I think hearing your story will be very encouraging for them.”

Lorenz hums a vague affirmative and sips his tea to cover the bloom of nerves. He has nothing to be afraid of, really—he’s done far more terrifying things. Like coming out on live television to spite his own father. And yet sharing his story with a group of teenagers of varying sexuality and gender presentations makes him feel like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

He wishes, suddenly, that he’d spoken to Claude about this. His insight is always invaluable, and besides, this had been _Claude’s_ engagement first, not his. But something—his own hubris, maybe—had prevented him. He wanted to do this on his own, surprise Claude with an unexpected success. Wanted to act on something without asking for permission first. He’d cleared it with Claude’s campaign manager, of course, who was running in circles trying to patch up the sudden sinkhole of events Claude was supposed to attend. Lorenz couldn’t be a stand-in for _all_ of them, but for some—the ones that were less political and more… philanthropic—it made sense for Lorenz to help fill the gaps caused by Claude’s absence from the public sphere.

As Mercedes continues to chatter happily without requiring much input from him, he realizes, with a small stab of guilt, that he hasn’t spoken to Claude about much of anything all week. It wasn’t intentional—he’s spent every waking moment either at work, or at the gym beneath Shamir’s calculating eye, or speaking with police over and over again about the night of the accident. He has entertained fleeting thoughts of calling Claude to go over campaign notes, or just to chat, as he had tried to do in the early days of Claude's sick leave. But by the time he’s scraped together a few minutes of free time it’s usually late at night, when it’s all he can do to drag himself through a shower and into bed.

He wonders how Claude is actually doing. Surely Hilda would tell him if anything were particularly amiss. Most likely he’s recuperating just fine at home, surly and stir-crazy but safe. That’s the most important thing. That he’s _safe_.

His eyes flutter shut and he flinches, feeling the cold spatter of rain against his cheek, the sharp drop in his stomach as the car seemed to crumple inwards around them like tissue paper. He himself hadn’t been badly injured, but getting knocked around had left him sore and aching for days afterward—and, in the moment, mildly concussed and bewildered, pinned between states of consciousness like a horrible lucid dream. In his memory, the streets run red and gold, the lights of a sinking ship seen from deep beneath the water. He remembers reaching for Claude’s hand and squeezing, struggling to see and hear and breathe through the ringing in his ears and the smack of the airbag. Remembers feeling nothing in response. Just limp fingers, cold and clammy as the wet night air poured in through the shattered windshield.

“Lorenz?”

He jerks back to the present and nearly sloshes tea on his nice suit pants. “Er, sorry, I must have drifted a bit there.”

“That’s perfectly all right.” She smiles kindly and sets her mug down. “Are you having second thoughts?”

It’s as easy an excuse as any. “I suppose I’m still just surprised you extended this invitation to me. Are you certain I’m a suitable replacement?”

Mercedes takes a breath to reply and is stopped in her tracks by the shrill ringing of Lorenz’s phone. He starts and digs his phone out of his pocket hurriedly. “I’m so sorry, I thought I had it silenced—”

The caller ID sinks its teeth into him cruelly and his voice dries up into nothing.

“I… could you excuse me for a moment?” he whispers. “I need to take this.”

“Of course.” Mercedes’ brow is rumpled with worry, but she doesn’t stop him or ask any questions as he excuses himself from the small office. Out in the hall, Shamir straightens up away from the wall, alert and ready to move, but she subsides again with a wave of his hand as he moves a little further down to take the call.

“Good evening, Father.”

“Lorenz.” There’s a brusque, irritable pause, as though the Count had not expected his son to pick up. “How are you this evening?”

Lorenz stifles a sigh at the empty pleasantry and stares at his shoes as he paces slowly along the gleaming linoleum. “Well enough. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“Do you really have to ask? I’ve been waiting for two weeks to hear from you, boy. If it weren’t for the media circuit barking up your hindquarters at all hours of the day, I very well could have thought you dead.”

Against his better judgement, Lorenz feels a twinge of guilt sink into his gullet. Hook, line, and sinker. “I’m sorry. You mean the accident, I assume?”

“Of course I mean the accident!” Arthur exclaims. “The hit and run, more like! At least _you_ seem relatively unharmed, though I was alarmed to hear of your foolish escapades in Goneril territory yesterday. You do have a day job, you realize? And not just any day job. A Vice President of my company does not take a day off on a lark to go speaking at… at _ladies’ luncheons_ on a mere whim.”

Lorenz closes his eyes. “I’m confused. Are you calling as my boss, after hours I might add, to give me a demerit, or are you calling as my father to scold me? And it was not just any luncheon, it was a fundraiser for Claude’s—”

“I’m well aware of its purpose.” Arthur sniffs. “That does not mean I approve. And I am certainly not scolding you—you are hardly a child. But if you continue in this ridiculous manner, parading about acting like a politician’s wife brought to heel, I will have to take some sort of action. Your… extracurricular activities are your own business, but they become _my_ business when I have to explain to my other executives why I’m allowing _you_ such free rein.”

It’s a valid point, even though it grinds between his teeth like sand to admit it. “Noted. I will be more careful with my time in the future.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And more careful with _yourself_, I hope.” He sounds gruff at best, like a badger woken early from hibernation. “Do what you will to destroy your own reputation, but if this ridiculous dalliance threatens your life, I really must insist on drawing a line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve put up with this dog and pony show of yours quite admirably, Lorenz,” his father says stiffly. “I understand, you know. You’re young, you’re chafing at the bit. In truth I expected something like this sooner.”

“Father, please.” Disbelief makes him bold, irreverent. “Are you really trying to give me the _it’s just a phase_ line?”

“You’ll come to your senses,” is the confident reply, as though he hadn’t heard Lorenz at all. “Sooner rather than later, I hope. But please do remember, Lorenz, that you have a family name to uphold, a legacy to pass on. It will truly break my heart if you refuse to see that.”

“I’m afraid my giving you grandchildren is out of the question,” Lorenz snaps, conveniently sidestepping the fact that is _isn’t_, technically, for a variety of reasons—not that he can presume that Claude would want children—not that it’s even a _concern_, this entire tangled mess is a _lie_, rendering the issue moot—

“Believe me, I said something similar to my own father once.” Through the phone his father sounds smug, slippery as an eel—it makes Lorenz want to take a scalding shower and scrub himself til his skin turns red and raw. “Many young men think similarly. Go on, then—sow your wild oats, if it pleases you. I suppose it’s a bit of a blessing in disguise that you can’t sire any bastards to make your life more difficult down the road. Eventually you’ll return to the fold. My prodigal son.”

He sounds _proud_, somehow, and the ringing tenor of it sticks beneath Lorenz’s ribcage and refuses to budge. “If it makes you happy to think so,” he says wearily, “by all means. Now. I hate to cut this short, but I have a talk to give to some underprivileged high schoolers.”

“Such a good little philanthropist. Don’t worry, the tabloids won’t care for long—if I can give you one more piece of advice, know that the papers are just waiting for you to trip up so they can tear your apart like a pack of hungry hyenas. Remember that, while you traipse around hanging off that imposter’s arm. Even his good name won’t be enough to save you then. The only name you can trust is your own, Lorenz. Don’t forget you’re a Gloucester, after everything.”

_If you’re so desperate for an heir that will fall in line, why don’t you marry some poor young starlet and pop out a few spares? _Lorenz thinks unkindly. But he wouldn’t wish that on anyone—not the hypothetical starlet, and definitely not whatever poor children might come from such a union. No, this task falls to him, and he will shoulder it as best he can. If that means keeping his temper, no matter how he longs to unleash it, so be it.

“I’ll remember, Father,” he says wearily. He bites his tongue until it threatens to bleed. “Thank you for your counsel.”

The fury burns out of him as they make their brief farewells, and he stands alone in the hall for a few heartbeats, bathed in the harsh fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. _Don’t forget you’re a Gloucester_. Ha! As if he could.

The soft rhythmic _tick-tick-tick_ of kitten heels draws his gaze, and he watches Mercedes come toward him, arms tucked into her shawl. He breaks out of the brittle shell of melancholy and pent-up frustration to meet her halfway. “Sorry about that. My father does not enjoy being sent to voicemail, as a rule.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem at all.” She smiles and puts a hand to his arm, squeezing gently. “Would you like to reschedule, or postpone? The kids will be disappointed, but they’ll understand, and I have enough material to keep them occupied tonight.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to accept her offer, but something stops him.

This is why he’s doing this, isn’t it? For the chance to offer guidance and hope to people who suffered the same indignities, the same doubts, without even half the resources he had to fall back on? He might not be the most experienced, or the most educated, or the most eloquent—but if he can look even one teenager in the eye tonight and tell them they’re worthwhile, just as they are, then he would take a hundred more phone calls just like that one, and damn the headache afterward.

“No,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height. “I’d really like to speak with them, if you’ll still have me.”

“Of course.” The sharp concern in her features softens to relief, and she loops her arm through his. “Follow me, we’re just about ready to start.”

Determination renewed, Lorenz walks at her side and feels the hot, unpleasant tension in his shoulders start to melt away. He’s going to give these kids his best, if only to spite his father. And afterward, he decides as she guides him into a classroom buzzing with unruly, bright-eyed teenagers, he’s going to call Claude, and damn the late hour.

><><

Claude is half asleep in front of the television, eyes glazed and right hand curled loose around the remote, when he phone buzzes against his hip. He starts awake and mutes the TV as he glances down. _Hell_.

“Lorenz? What’s wrong?” he says as soon as he has the phone to his ear. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lorenz soothes, sounding tired but amused. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t usually call this late, since… well. You don’t call at all, actually. Since.”

“I’m sorry.” Still tired, but now strained and apologetic. There’s a slight distortion to his voice that bleeds the emotion from it, and the occasional hum of white noise like he has him on speakerphone. Driving? “I’ve been… busy.”

“Well that makes one of us,” Claude mutters.

There’s a pause. More than a pause, drawn-out over the space of several breaths. If it weren’t for the distant sigh of traffic, Claude would have thought he’d hung up on him. “Is it a bad time if I come by?” Lorenz says at long last. “I know it’s late, but I… I had a thing. And I’d like to tell you about it.”

“A thing?” Claude echoes. Despite his hurt feelings, he can’t help perking up at the prospect of getting to see Lorenz in person after nearly two weeks of very sporadic contact. “That sounds dire.”

“It wasn’t, at all. It was quite lovely, actually. I hope…”

“Hmm?”

“I hope you don’t mind. That I did it.”

“I guess you’ll have to come tell me to find out, won’t you?”

A soft, crackly huff of laughter. “I suppose so. I’ll see you soon, Claude.”

“Drive safe,” Claude says quickly before Lorenz can hang up. Another pause, fraught.

“I will.”

Claude almost asks him to stay on the line until he arrives, but it’s too late. His phone _beeps_ with the disconnected call. With a sigh, Claude levers himself off the couch and moves around the living room, stiffly tidying up a few days’ worth of cups and plates and newspapers and other accumulated detritus. He’s perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, as Hilda informed him earlier that day with an unimpressed eyebrow arched high—it just seems like so much _effort_. And he’s injured, he tells himself. The whiny brat in his head is getting more persistent without anything to keep it occupied.

Still, by the time he hears the key turning in the lock, the living room looks neat_ish_, and he’s got a kettle on the hob for tea if Lorenz is inclined—he usually is. Claude leans against the door frame to the kitchen and watches Lorenz enter, wipe his shoes conscientiously, hang his coat, check his hair in the hall mirror. Little rituals he’s seen a hundred times. He shouldn’t find them as charming as he does.

“Hello, stranger,” he says, just to see Lorenz jump. And he does, as predicted—but unlike the haughty cover-up Claude had half-expected, Lorenz melts into an easy smile and he shakes his head, moving further into the house.

“Good evening. Already in your pajamas, I see.”

“I never got out of them,” Claude admits. He looks down at himself belatedly—he hadn’t even thought to change out of his flannel sleep pants and fuzzy, ratty bathrobe. He’s a far cry from Lorenz’s pressed perfection, as usual. At least Lorenz doesn’t seem to mind. “Want tea? Water’s hot.”

“Yes, please.”

Lorenz trails him to the kitchen but acquires his own mug, and rummages through the cabinets until he finds a tea he likes. Claude, at loose ends, leans against the butcher block and watches him move through the kitchen like he’s perfectly at home, and nurses a warm glow of contentment in his chest that’s been missing for over two weeks.

“I visited with Mercedes’ LGBT student group tonight,” Lorenz says over the rippling pour of water into a teapot. Before Lorenz, Claude had never had a real tea set. Now he has two—one Almyran, the other a traditional bone china set from a local craftsman. “In your absence.”

Ah. “So that’s what you meant by _thing_.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” He finishes pouring and closes the teapot to let it steep a little. Already the warm, woody smell of cinnamon and rooibos and vanilla is filling the kitchen. Claude drifts closer. “Hilda and your campaign manager both cleared it, and Mercie was happy not to have to cancel or rearrange the club schedule, I think.”

“I appreciate you stepping in.” Claude fiddles with the tie of his bathrobe with his good hand, watching Lorenz’s pale, slim fingers stroke nervously over the marble countertop. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did, actually.” Lorenz turns to him finally, eyes lit up from within. _He’s so pretty when he’s passionate…. _“I was a bit overdressed, I think, but after my talk they were very receptive and asked a lot of questions. I… tried to answer in ways I thought would help them, rather than hinder.”

“I’m certain you did wonderfully. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else standing in for me.”

Lorenz colors slightly. “I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t want to be a detriment—”

“This isn’t the first event you’ve covered for me, is it.” He doesn’t mean to interrupt—Lorenz had seemed like he was done with the sentence, but from the look on his face perhaps Claude spoke too soon. “You attended a town hall meeting in Riegan County a few days ago, and you were in Goneril yesterday doing some fundraising.”

“How did you know about that?” Lorenz blusters.

“I have ears and eyes and an internet connection,” Claude says drily. “Don’t worry, I’m not upset. I’m… pleasantly surprised?”

“Is that what you’d call that face?” Lorenz asks, dubious. “Because you don’t exactly seem overjoyed to me.”

“As long as you’re not planning to steal my seat from under me…”

“Certainly not!” Lorenz draws himself up with a huff. “My only intent has ever been to assist and aid your campaign—”

“Lorenz.”

“—and I would _never_ betray the trust you’ve put in me, I only feared you’d disapprove of me acting alone while you recovered, and I thought it was better to ask forgiveness than permission—”

“_Lorenz._”

His mouth snaps shut like a vise.

“I’m not angry. Truly.” Claude brushes nearer, but rather than take his hand the way he wants to, he reaches for the teapot—perhaps a clearer love language for Lorenz than touch. “Tell me more about the kids. Did they ask any difficult questions? Anything about _us_?”

“Actually, not as many as I expected. About us, I mean.” The line of his shoulders slumps and grows soft like the blush-pink droop of his eyelids as he watches Claude pour. “They wanted to know how I came to terms with it, who I told, how they reacted…”

Claude winces. “How did you answer?”

“Honestly,” Lorenz says with a little shrug. “I was afraid it wouldn’t be very helpful to hear my story, but I was able to glean some advice from the chaff. Mercedes was quite appreciative, after. And Shamir indicated her approval, which is perhaps a more difficult wall to hurdle.”

“Where is she now?”

“Shamir? With the car.” _Keeping watch_ goes unsaid. Claude can’t help but feel a little relieved at that. “Sugar?”

“Just a little.” Claude leans in blearily and rests his forehead against Lorenz’s shoulder. He is just tired and achy enough to admit, quietly, “I’ve missed you.”

Lorenz lets out a long, slow breath, hands wrapped around his teacup. He doesn’t shrug Claude away. “I’m sorry for neglecting you. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be… fussed over.”

“I don’t, as a rule. I must be getting soft in my old age.”

Lorenz is warm against his face, and he smells nice, but Claude drags himself away to pluck his own cup off the counter and lead the way back into the living room. There is plenty of room for them to sit at opposite ends of the couch, but Lorenz settles right next to him against his good side and sets his cup on the narrow coffee table to shrug out of his sport coat. He’s wearing a deep plum turtleneck underneath, streamlined against his slender torso—Claude can see the knobs of his spine as he bends forward to tuck the coat out of the way.

Lorenz pauses briefly before sitting upright again, tea in hand. “Are you allowed to have that?”

“Have what?” _Oh_. Claude flushes. In his halfhearted tidying spree, he’d missed the lighter and pipe sitting on the coffee table from earlier in the afternoon. “Yeah it’s fine. Doc approved.” He nudges Lorenz gently in the ribs. “Want some?”

His lips twitch. “Well, if you’re offering…”

“Your babysitter won’t mind?” Tea forgotten, Claude clears out the ashes and packs a fresh bowl from the cedar box he keeps tucked discreetly in the coffee table’s narrow drawer. It’s not a very pungent blend, and the smell of sharp pine and mellow, sun-warm hay fills the room as he courteously offers Lorenz the first hit.

“Certainly not. I have yet to find the limits of her patience—and anyway, she’s driving.”

They pass it back and forth a few times and Claude sets the pipe aside, reclining back against the couch with a sigh. “Feels like old times,” he murmurs, a last bit of smoke wisping from between his parted lips. He puts his foot up on the table and Lorenz doesn’t even chide him—he must have really needed this.

“I think we were slightly more adventurous in college, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“Yeah, fair. Weed’s about as hard as I go these days.” To his mild surprise, he feels Lorenz slide against him, wriggling until his head is on Claude’s shoulder and his feet are propped up neatly between the pipe—pretty golden glass, a graduation gift from Leonie—and his folded coat. He cradles his teacup in his hands but doesn’t drink from it, just absorbs its warmth into his skin like a cat curled in the sun.

“Hilda said,” Lorenz begins, and is sidetracked by a yawn. “Forgive me. Hilda said you’d be back on the campaign trail next week. Something about a talk in southern Leicester.”

“Mm. There’s a debate scheduled. I’m not particularly worried.” He drapes his arm over Lorenz’s shoulders and fiddles with his hair, long and silken against his cheek. “I’ll be glad to get out of this damned house.”

Lorenz is quiet. When Claude peers down at him, already feeling the feathered edges of the high creeping up on him, his mouth his pursed in an unhappy moue. Claude thinks fleetingly of putting his finger there, pressing in, feeling the silky inner skin of his lips part for him—

_Better stop while you’re ahead_. He shifts a little on the couch, thighs together.

“How’s your bodyguard working out?”

“Oh, extremely well. She’s just as good as advertised—I barely know she’s there half the time.”

“But you feel safer?”

“Much.” Lorenz shifts, like he’s preparing to sit up, but his body stays heavy and warm against Claude’s side. “Mm.”

“Another?”

Lorenz chuffs. “Please.”

“Have you been doing all right, since the accident?” Claude asks, punctuated by the dry _snick_ of the lighter catching and blossoming flame.

“Of course,” Lorenz says, too quickly. “Perfectly fine.”

“Seems like you’ve been running yourself ragged to me.” Claude holds the pipe for him, a little selfish concession. Lorenz’s fingers rest lightly against his knuckles as his lips meet the pipe’s mouth and drag in. The bowl flares, little curls of light that glow against Lorenz’s pale, pretty cheek. He looks weary, lashes dark like bruises beneath his eyes—is his face thinner, or is it just the angle?

Lorenz pulls away suddenly and turns his head, coughing. “Sorry,” he wheezes, half-laughing. “I’m out of practice, it seems.”

“That’s easily fixed.”

Later, Claude will wonder what on earth possessed him to follow the foolish notion in his head, but right now it seems like the best idea in the world. He takes a deep drag himself, heat and smoke crackling pleasantly in his lungs, and holds it while he sets pipe and lighter aside. Then he takes Lorenz’s chin and nudges their mouths together—not quite a kiss, lips open as he exhales smoke. For a moment it curls freely around their faces, and then Lorenz gulps an inhale and breathes it in, his hand a minor tremor on Claude’s shoulder.

Claude subsides and licks his lips, tasting cinnamon. “Better?”

Lorenz looks like a startled hare, eyes wide, about to bolt. But the high has well and truly hooked into his bones, now, as it has Claude’s, a subtle, kindly snare around the rabbit’s foot; and after a moment of just blinking, he leans back against the couch, against Claude’s side, a poorly-suppressed chuckle burbling behind his teeth. “That was… unorthodox.”

“Was it? I dunno, did it in college all the time with… people.”

Lorenz hums doubtfully, face hidden in Claude’s shoulder. “I am not _people_.”

“Aren’t you?” He doesn’t really know what they’re talking about anymore.

There is no reply, and Claude doesn’t press for one. After a minute, he finds the remote digging into his hip and puts on some garbage game show, and then it’s well and truly like their college days, getting blazed and watching TV until the early, early morning hours, crammed together on their shitty beat-up couch Claude had found on the side of the road. All that’s missing are the doritos, but Claude is too heavy-limbed and lethargic to hunt down munchies.

“They still haven’t found him,” Lorenz whispers at long last during a commercial break, voice worn to a mere thread in the dark.

“I know.” A cold, old anger grips his guts, and Claude wraps Lorenz more snugly against him, thigh pressed to thigh, nose brushing the silky hair at his crown. He’s been through this before. This hasn’t even been the most violent attempt on his life, but it’s the shock of it more than anything else that keeps him up at night. He’s gotten complacent, these last few years. Not that he can explain any of that to Lorenz. “Maybe it really was an accident.”

“Then how could he have covered his own trail so thoroughly?”

“Good luck. Or bad luck, depending on how you look at it.”

It was a dark, wet night; traffic cameras were notoriously grainy and difficult to pull details from; the vehicle that had collided with them was generic, one of a hundred other trucks just like it. There are plenty of reasons why the police are having difficulty tracking down the culprit. Frankly, Claude never had high hopes to begin with. If they were in Almyra, it would be a different story. But he isn’t a prince, here, and even his political endeavors in Fódlan aren’t enough to spur the Leicester police force to go above and beyond the call of duty.

“My father called tonight,” Lorenz says suddenly. It’s almost enough to shock Claude sober—almost. “He had a few things to say about my… conduct. And he expressed concern for my physical wellbeing, which I wasn’t expecting.”

Claude squeezes his eyes shut. “Why did you have to spring this on me _now_, when I’m high and can’t concentrate? Did you tell Shamir?”

“I did, after the talk.”

“All right. We can go over it later. He didn’t… say anything incriminating?”

Lorenz wrinkles his nose adorably. “He didn’t confess to hiring a stalker, if that’s what you mean.”

“Shame. But I suppose he’s too clever for that.”

There’s a bit of a pause—Claude can practically hear the cogs turning hazily in Lorenz’s head just under his cheek—and then Lorenz says, in a small voice, “You think he had something to do with it, don’t you. The accident.”

Claude chews his lower lip. “I don’t think it’s… entirely out of the question, let’s say that.”

“Fuck you,” Lorenz whines, so out of character that Claude snorts with laughter before soothing him down from irritation with soft, careful pets to his pretty purple hair. “Talking in circles…”

“I’m sorry,” Claude says, and he’s mostly telling the truth. His eyes feel hot, not with tears. He shuts them and gives Lorenz’s shoulder a squeeze. “Can’t help it. Will you come to bed with me?”

“What a _shocking _thing to say to me, Claude von Riegan.”

“Shut up. I’m tired, and I’m not falling asleep on a couch with you again. My neck hurt like a bitch for _days_ afterward.”

“Shamir…”

“She can come back and get you in the morning. That’s what you’re paying the big bucks for, innit?” Goddess, if he’s slurring his words he’s _really_ not sober. “C’mon, Lor. Take your pants off and stay awhile.”

“It’s _coat_. Take your _coat_ off and stay…” Lorenz breaks off to yawn, and by the time he’s finished he seems to have forgotten his train of thought. “I need to brush my teeth.”

“I’ve got a spare, I think, if you really insist. Any more objections for me to refute?”

“Mmmm… no.” Lorenz pries himself away from Claude’s side and stands with much effort, listing like a ship with a leak in her hull. “How come you win… every bloody argument?”

“Because I’m just that clever.” Claude loops an arm around his slender waist and tugs him bodily toward the stairs. He doesn’t remember getting to the top, or collapsing into bed with Lorenz sprawled against him, but they manage it somehow. Whatever regrets they’ll have in the morning can wait until then.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude wrestles with his feelings, and with the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO thrilled to finally be able to share this chapter for one reason and one reason only: I had the honor and privilege of commissioning Hya (@spicehya) for the magazine [cover](https://twitter.com/SpiceHya/status/1199706784379752448?s=20) of Fodlan's OUT!! Please go give it some love, she did a fucking amazing job with my haphazard directions, and keep an eye out for it inline with the rest of the text! 
> 
> Edit: here's [MORE](https://twitter.com/ruushes/status/1199766282125529088?s=20) absolutely beautiful art by ruushes!! Some outtakes from the candid photoshoot at Claude's house!
> 
> cw for this chapter: references to lorenz's dad continuing to be an awful person, as usual, and a brief reference to marijuana consumption from last chapter.

The Great Tree Moon issue of Fódlan’s _OUT_ magazine drops to great critical acclaim. Everyone agrees: Miss Arnault has outdone herself. She mails an advance copy to Claude’s townhouse, slipped neatly into a yellow envelope and again into a white paper sleeve with a flirty thank-you note written in her loopy, elegant hand.

_Cheers, boys. Thank you so much for enduring my endless questions and putting up with that final shoot to nail the cover. I hope you love it as much as I do. Much love, Dorothea <3_

Claude knows he should wait for Lorenz to join him, but he’s tied up at work and the anticipation is too great. With eager hands, he slices the seam of the innermost envelope and lets the magazine slide out onto the kitchen table.

He takes a little breath of brilliant surprise to see the cover—he hardly recognizes himself. Maybe he should be used to it by now, seeing his own face shot so starkly and plastered across magazine covers and billboards, but he isn’t. He would never have picked the fitted white Armani suit for himself, for example, or the black-and-gold shirt beneath it; someone else had styled his hair and done his makeup, subtle touches of highlighter and lash-tint that turned him from _handsome_ into _striking_. The dramatic setup enhances the effect, late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the elegant arch of the window behind him and spilling across the floor, the back of the couch he’s perched on. And yet Lorenz outshines him, of course. Reclining against Claude’s chest with legs crossed demurely, a glass of wine in one hand and a smirk on his face as if to say, _aren’t you jealous? _

They look incredible together, full stop. The name of the magazine is stamped in the top right corner, allowing their fashionable figures to take up most of the real estate, and toward the bottom in bold letters is the title of the article: _Kings of a New Era—heirs to the Leicester Alliance on life, love, and reshaping the political landscape of Fódlan._

_ _

Claude stares for a while, letting it sink in. There’s a tingling in his chest, beneath his breastbone, traveling all the way down to his fingertips, and he doesn’t think it’s because his cast was finally removed last week.

He snaps a picture and texts it to Lorenz.

_I’m reading it. Don’t be mad. _

He tears his eyes away from photo-Lorenz’s smug violet gaze and opens to the centerfold. “Oh, fuck.” He’d forgotten the goddamn _photoshoot. _

The two-page spread is only a glorified title page, but it’s captivating. Golden light streams through the windows in Claude’s kitchen, trapping dust motes in the rays like twinkling stars captured between sheaves of paper. Most of the room is cast in shadow, but illuminated in the center right, figures cut from the canvas of a Renaissance painting, Lorenz and Claude lean and twine together, limbs enfolded as they lift the heavy butcher block off the ground like an elegant human lever system. To the left, where the kitchen floor darkens into shadow, reads:

> _BRICK BY BRICK—Lorenz and Claude are no strangers to working together. Each step they take in tandem is like a dance, their partnership forged through years of collaboration. This new facet of their public life only proves that they are stronger together. _

Claude swallows, eyes skimming the line of Lorenz’s arm extended beside his own. The warm glow of the kitchen gives him an almost faerie-like appearance, strands of purple hair coming loose from their low ponytail and crystallizing golden as they waft around his face. His brow is furrowed slightly in concentration, skin warm and dewy with sweat. Claude remembers very clearly how he’d smelled that day, salty and spicy beneath the faint floral perfume that always seemed to cling to his hair. A bit of honest grit beneath the polish. Face warm, Claude licks his thumb and reluctantly turns the page.

Many of the other pictures are quite similar in feel, draped in the echoes of another time—a liminal space crafted by their own hands. It’s strange, reliving that day. It had weighed on him even more than he anticipated, and seeing it replicated in stark, desaturated tones makes it like he’s watching a documentary about someone else’s life: removing his ancestors’ portraits from the walls; poring over piles of old books and maps that his grandfather had hoarded so jealously; attacking the wild-grown hedge out back with enormous shears as the cherry tree showered Lorenz in pale powder-pink blossoms. The surreal effect is only enhanced by the occasional _couture_ portrait sprinkled throughout, contrasting the more earnest candids with opulence and wealth.

He’s so busy combing through the pictures—hang the article for now—that he misses Lorenz’s first text, and his second. He’s only roused from his absorption when his phone vibrates frenetically on the table, alerting him to the incoming call.

“Well?” Lorenz says before he even has a chance to greet him. “How is it?”

“It’s—beautiful,” Claude fumbles, eyes still pinned to a shot of Lorenz against the bookshelves, long fingers reaching for the glimmer of tarnished gilt on a spine’s edge. He hasn’t even read the first sentence, if he’s honest. “Want me to read it to you?”

“Please.”

Claude clears his throat, sits back, and begins to read.

> _Sitting before two of the most talked-about men in Leicester should be nervewracking, but poised across from these unlikely lovebirds feels like watching my niece try to introduce me to her boyfriend. They sit too close, and yet refuse to hold hands—they make eyes at one another when they think the other isn’t looking. I am charmed by their disingenuity, and baffled by the undercurrent of tension that runs between them like a subterranean river. There are layers here, I realize. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I will be able to unearth a few of them today._
> 
> _I first met Lorenz and Claude, of Riegan and Gloucester fame, as a student at the prestigious Garreg Mach Monastery. I was there on scholarship—they, quite obviously, were not. But the similarities between them ended there. Before the week was over, everyone on campus was aware of the rivalry they shared. Ironic, considering they’d been assigned to room together for the entirety of freshman year. By week two there were multiple bets running on how long it would take for one of them to snap, and which of them would be the first. (I may have had a few dollars on Gloucester.)_
> 
> _Looking at them now, I can hardly believe they’re the same high-strung, arrogant boys I knew in college. They have grown into themselves—and, it seems, into each other. When I broach the subject of their relationship, they blush and melt, waxing rhapsodic about the first time they realized they were in love. “College, for me,” Claude says promptly, as if I haven’t just been pondering the campus rumors that cropped up when Riegan took a long weekend and was mysteriously missing from campus for four days. I’m disinclined to believe him, at first, but then he looks at his partner of five years with the kind of fond, steady, slow-burn love they write epic novels about, and realize it’s all true._

Claude pauses to take a breath and finds his mouth is dry as dust. On the other end of the line: silence. He slips out of his seat and goes to pour himself a glass of water. “Still with me?”

“I guess we really fooled her,” Lorenz says after a moment, sounding strangely subdued. Then, shrilly, “She put _money_ on _me_ breaking first? Unbelievable!”

Claude laughs and navigates back to the table, cup in one hand and phone in the other. His left arm still aches a little, noticeably thinner than the other with his sleeves pushed up, so he pulls them down over his wrists and flexes his hand against his thigh. “Should I keep going?”

“Yes, please. Your voice is rather soothing.” He sniffs, and a crackle of static travels down the line. “Hopefully she’s a little more complimentary going forward.”

She is. Extremely so, but in that dry, acidic way that is sharp and smart and so very _Dorothea_. In the space of a single paragraph she shifts gears between college shenanigans—the underwear incident thankfully not included—and clever insights on Claude’s campaign. And all through it, a subtle, recurring theme: Lorenz and Claude are irrevocably, undeniably in love.

His voice does not fail him again, by some miracle. When he reaches the end he takes a sip of water and listens to Lorenz exhale on the other end of the line.

“She certainly knows how to spin a story,” he says. There’s an odd quality to his voice—Claude isn’t sure whether it’s a poor connection, or something else. “I’m nearly home, so I’ll talk with you later, Claude. Thank you for sharing.”

“‘Course. See you this weekend for the town hall meeting?”

“Naturally.”

He hangs up, and Claude is left staring at his silent phone feeling like he’s been spun for a ride on a merry-go-round that stopped too quickly, throwing him off balance. His heart still pounds with the rhythm of Dorothea’s words in his mouth—intimate, insightful words that are going to sweep through the city and the country and beyond when the issue hits stands tomorrow.

Claude flips through again, eyes sliding past the gleaming typeface to the images tucked inside the annals of the article like fractals of light splashing rainbows on the wall. A closeup of Claude’s hand on Lorenz’s waist; the curve of a smile beneath purple hair; hands braced to wood and stone and metal as they reshaped Claude’s house around him like they were shaping their world.

The realization comes to him, quite suddenly, that he would not have made it this far without Lorenz. From their earliest days in school, always at each other’s throats, he had been spurred by Lorenz’s perceived insults to do better, speak more eloquently, achieve greater heights in his grades and his personal life. He had still been an unknown, then—by accident or by design Lorenz had guided him, shoved him, bullied him into acquaintanceship with other budding leaders of Fódlan; had instigated arguments about political structures and norms that most of Leicester took for granted.

And now, years later, what has changed except his demeanor? Lorenz still pokes holes in his speeches until they’re compact and whole and gleaming like polished river stones. Still debates the finer points of law and fiscal policies with him. Still rolls his sleeves up and works beside him, shoulder to shoulder, refusing to shun the dirtier side of political work. Flames, the man had stepped in and given talks and speeches on his own when Claude was still confined to his house, strapped to a cast and unable to take full breaths between words. The only thing that sets the Lorenz of _now_ apart from the Lorenz of their college days is…

Well. He’s a bit softer around the edges, now. More thoughtful in his words. Less obnoxiously… noble. _Definitely_ prettier. A fact he's become more keenly aware of in recent weeks.

_"Are you watching me undress, Claude von Riegan?"_

_"Mmmmmmm. Course not. That would be... improper."_

_Lorenz snorts and turns away as he peels himself out of his clothes, every movement slow and stretched-out like soft taffy. He's so unselfconscious when he's high, easy and languid—pale beneath his clothes except for the little tufts of lavender beneath his arms, and marching in a well-groomed line from his navel to the waistband of his briefs. _

_"We've done far more illicit things than this, according to the tabloids." Lorenz finger-combs his hair over one shoulders and twists it into a loose braid. His hair is so silky it will surely fall about by morning, but right now it makes him look charming, a stately heron with his wings well-groomed and his chin tucked in for sleep. _

He must not have minded the weight of Claude's gaze, because he crawled into bed without a qualm and burrowed against Claude's side beneath the covers. He was asleep in an instant. But the strange, smokey tension that had followed them upstairs lingered beneath Claude's breastbone, and he laid awake in a half-doze for some time afterward, too warm in his own skin, hot between his legs and a little ashamed of himself for it.

It was natural to be a little… worked up, Claude tried to tell himself. Lorenz was an attractive man, and Claude was only human. Not that he would act on it! After all, Lorenz had never made any overt reciprocation to encourage him. As always, he was strangely brusque and reticent to most advances when they weren’t in public. Claude was just…

It was the weed, he decided, some of his guilt dissipating. Weed always made him horny. He’d get up early in the morning, take a hot shower, blow off some steam, maybe give Dima a call…

No. The very thought repulsed him, and not because he was no longer attracted to Dimitri. He _was_, objectively—he wasn’t blind. It was why they’d fallen into bed in the first place, and continued to do so sporadically after college, but…

Maybe they weren’t really dating, him and Lorenz, but it was like Dima had said before—Claude felt a protective urge to guard him from infidelity, even if there was nothing to be faithful _toward_. The fiction of Lorenz, besotted and in love, deserved better. Claude would just have to suffer through it, find some other way to burn off this persistent, inconvenient energy.

_The sort of love they write novels about. _

Goddess take Dorothea and her romantic notions. Claude scowls and rubs at his chest. The last thing he needs is to start overthinking this. Not now, when elections are very nearly within reach.

Speaking of which—he’s behind. He stands back up, leaving the magazine open to the centerfold, and stalks upstairs to his newly refinished office, now clean and minimalist and flush with a couple of succulents from Leonie. He has a debate to prepare for, and an acceptance speech to write.

A concession speech is out of the question.

><><

With a month to go before Roundtable elections, Claude and Lorenz find themselves en route to an annual sociopolitical conference. Each country that falls beneath the umbrella of Fódlan’s allied nations sends several representatives along, and for a long weekend there are endless talks and debates and meetings, a cultural hotpot of progress, reform, and education. This year the summit is being held in Almyra, which Claude has quietly been looking forward to. It’s half the reason he agreed to go on behalf of the Leicester Alliance—and, he’s quite certain, half the reason he was selected by the Roundtable for the privilege. Half proving ground, half convenience. After all, it’s not every upstart politician who can speak the native tongue fluently.

He does wish it wasn’t so close to the beginning of election season. When he’d told Lorenz his presentations were mostly recycled speeches he’d been half-joking—now wasn’t the time to rehash old statements. New, fresh material is what would keep him ahead of the pack. Critics notice when he repeats himself too often_. _

But there’s nothing for it. Even if he’s far from the most important person in attendance, his appearance will definitely be reflected in results at the polls come Harpstring Moon. So he spends all his waking moments swapping between writing speeches and refining his talking points, and drives Hilda and Lorenz up the wall begging their ears to rehearse again and again and again.

The work helps keep him focused, keep his mind from wandering. Most of the time. In the evenings when his body aches for sleep, his brain insists on spinning endlessly, and when he _does_ sleep his dreams are restless and unsatisfying. He doesn’t know what it is, what tipped him over the edge, but when he wakes up wet and throbbing for third time in a week, he knows he’s in over his head.

Of course he’s attracted to Lorenz. His friend is incredibly good-looking, whether or not he believes it, elegant and long-limbed and _competent_. Strategic brilliance is Claude’s weak point, and Lorenz has it in spades. And combined with his physical good looks, and the fact that Claude hasn’t been intimate with anyone in almost two years…

_Hell of a dry spell_, he thinks ruefully. And he’s going to be stuck in the middle of it for another few months at least. Even if—_when_—they do break it off, which seems an especially daunting prospect after the wild success of Dorothea’s article, he knows he won’t be able to dive into the dating pool right away. It just won’t feel right.

He won’t have time anyway, he tells himself the night before their flight to Almyra. He’s in the midst of last-minute packing, half an ear turned to the rise and fall of Hilda’s voice downstairs as she speaks on the phone with the transportation service that will be picking them up from the airport. The only respite he’ll have between now and the final elections in two months is the week Hilda squeezed into his schedule after the summit, and after that… after that he’ll be Councilman von Riegan, and dating will be the last thing on his mind.

He very carefully does not think about what will happen if he loses.

“Claude!” Hilda hollers up the stairs. “Are you done? We need to leave twenty minutes ago!”

“Almost!” he shouts back. He dithers in the doorway to the bathroom briefly before giving in and hastily stuffing a smallish bottle of lube and his favorite bullet vibe into an inner side pocket of his suitcase. Fuck it. A week and a half of close quarters is going to be the death of him, so he might as well take his fun where he can get it.

The drive to the airport is fraught with Hilda’s muttering and Claude’s phone buzzing with last-minute reminders from his campaign manager. He tunes it out as best he can. Despite the late hour, he feels antsy, brimming at the seams with too much energy. He wants to get out of the car and run the rest of the way just to diffuse this annoying restlessness, but that would be inadvisable, so he contents himself with jiggling his leg and fiddling with the catch to his carryon bag until his thumb start to chafe against the clasp.

“We’re getting in around noon local time,” Hilda is saying, more for her own benefit than for his. “We’ll go right to the hotel and check in, and then you have a few hours to catch up on sleep and the time difference before the welcome dinner. Your cousin is speaking at that, by the way.”

Claude’s scattered brain zips up tight and he whips his head around to look at her. “He is? How did I miss that?”

“We haven’t received any formal requests for a private meeting, so I’ll assume he’s up to date on your preference for flying under the radar while in Almyra. He may still want to meet informally, though.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Have you briefed Lorenz on the situation?”

“What _situation_?”

“Your… ties to the Almyran royal family,” Hilda says delicately.

Claude barks a laugh. “You mean the fact that I’m _part_ of the Almyran royal family?”

“I was trying to be discreet…”

“For once.”

“Shut up.” Hilda slaps at his thigh with the hem of her coat. “Whatever, forget I said anything. You’re obviously determined to be a dunce about this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t feign stupidity, Claude, it doesn’t suit you.” She sighs and puts her phone down at last, leaving the weekend’s itinerary for a later time, and looks at him directly. “You can’t hide the truth from him forever. You’re taking him to your _parents’ _house for fuck’s sake. What do you intend to do? Do _they_ know the truth about any of this?”

“I’ve told them nothing different from what we’ve told the public,” Claude says, his voice firmer than his resolve, which wavers as he clasps his hands together between his knees. The car slows, making ready to turn into the entrance to the Derdriu International Airport, and he presses his feet more firmly against the floor, unintentionally bracing himself against a blow that never comes. “I would rather not… complicate things.”

“_Complicate _things? It seems to me that you’ve already got that handled.”

“What good would it do, to tell them? They’d only be disappointed in me—you’ve met my mother, you know how she is. She’d be grilling me for hours on my reasons for agreeing to such a scheme, and how I hope to free myself of it once the ruse has run its course.”

“Not unreasonable questions,” Hilda murmurs. “You can simply tell her that Lysithea and I have it all in hand.”

“You _know_ she wouldn’t settle for that. And my father…” His throat closes up suddenly with trepidation. “He’s more supportive of my _outlandish ideas_, but the truth would test the limits of even _his_ tolerant nature. Besides which…”

“Besides _what_?”

“Nevermind. The point being, I would prefer to introduce Lorenz to them as my boyfriend. It will make them happy to see me settled, and they can entertain visions of grandchildren and happy family holidays and be satisfied.” _At least for a little while. _

Hilda shrugs and picks up her phone again. “Do whatever you want, I guess. I just thought you’d be happy to have a whole week where you didn’t have to pretend to be in love with anyone.”

Claude is saved from having to reply as the car swings into an empty spot at the curb near their gate. He scrambles out onto the blacktop and hustles to the trunk before Raph is even out of the car.

He doesn’t have it in him to refute her—and even if he did, the words escape him. How can he explain it, when he can scarcely acknowledge it himself?

Hilda is there waiting when he closes the trunk, hand held out expectantly for her luggage. It’s as heavy as Claude’s, if not heavier, even though she’ll be returning to Leicester once the conference is over, but she takes its weight without flinching, eyes boring into his face. “Unless,” she says, as though their conversation hadn’t even paused for breath, “it’s not _pretending_ at all.”

Claude slams the trunk shut and raps the glass for Raphael to pull away. When he hefts his suitcase up onto the sidewalk and makes for the doors, Hilda follows him without another word.

><><

Lorenz and Shamir are waiting for them on the other side of security, in the priority lounge. In spite of the late hour, coming on midnight, Lorenz looks fresh as a proverbial daisy—or perhaps a violet would be more apropos. His pin-straight hair is tucked neatly behind one ear and left loose, his coat open to reveal a pale lavender shirt and dark trousers that cling to his long, restless legs. The sharp set of his shoulders softens slightly as Claude enters the lounge, Hilda close on his heels.

“There you are.” Smiling distractedly, he leans in to kiss Claude’s cheek, smelling faintly of bergamot and pine. Not his usual, subtly floral cologne. Claude squeezes his arm and leans in briefly, nose to the elegant cut of his jaw.

“Sorry we’re a little late. You smell nice.”

“Thank you. A parting gift from Lysithea.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Any particular reason for the delay?”

“No, just left a few things til last minute that piled up. You know how it is.”

Lorenz makes a noncommittal sound as Claude drops into one of the chairs. They have half an hour before boarding, so he may as well be comfortable. Lorenz, however, remains standing, hands in his coat pockets and eyes roaming restlessly over the mostly empty room. The glass wall permits a view of the concourse on one side, while the other looks out over Derdriu’s gleaming skyline, but Lorenz’s preoccupation seems directed elsewhere.

“Sit,” Claude says, patting the chair beside him. “You’re making me nervous. I never realized you weren’t fond of flying.”

“Flying doesn’t bother me.” Lorenz sits, finally, though not comfortably—he perches on the edge of the seat instead, long legs folded beneath him and hands poised on his thighs like a bird on the cusp of taking flight. “We’ve just had an update from the police, in fact; but perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss it.”

Just like that, Claude is wide awake. He sits up and turns in Lorenz’s direction, knees knocking together slightly. Hilda draws nearer, responding to his crooked finger—Shamir stays where she is against the window, back to the night sky, eyes sharp as they scan the room continuously. Claude feels safer just having her there.

“Why didn’t we hear anything from Lys?” he asks.

“Lysithea doesn’t know yet—that’s how new this is. A folio is being forwarded to her by the head investigator on our case.” Lorenz takes a breath. “They have a suspect. A Mr. Rawlin Evans.”

Claude’s brow draws taut. “I don’t recognize the name.”

“Nor I. But you may recognize his face.” Lorenz unlocks his phone and holds it so that Claude and Hilda can both see. Claude’s lip curls.

“That bastard at the restaurant. I fucking knew it.”

“He has yet to be apprehended, but they believe he’s still in the city. They also believe he wasn’t working alone.” Lorenz returns his phone to an inner pocket of his coat and folds his hands tightly in his lap, so tight his knuckles turn paper-white at the seams. “They questioned the staff who were at the restaurant that night, and there was a man sitting alone at one of the tables against the wall whom Mr. Evans had been sitting near. They did not speak directly, but a server remarked that Mr. Evans was the recipient of a free drink from the other man’s tab.”

“Who was he? Any name, credit card, description…?”

“A vague description, but nothing concrete. He paid his bill in cash.” Lorenz heaves a sigh and glances around for Shamir, seeming to relax a little when he sees her just out of earshot. “There’s no evidence, yet, but I think—and Shamir agrees—that the man Evans was colluding with is our little private eye.”

“So I was right.” Claude rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm, willing the budding headache to dissipate. “The accident was your father’s doing.”

Lorenz shuts his eyes.

“That’s a bit of a leap to make with no evidence,” Hilda says tartly. “Don’t _overcomplicate_ things, Claude.” She takes out her phone. “I need to talk to Lysithea. Don’t work yourself into a state, Lorenz, you both should at least try to sleep on the plane.”

She stands and drifts a short distance away, near enough to keep an eye on them but far enough that her whispered conversation won’t be overheard. Lorenz makes a face at her retreating back, but subsides again once she’s gone, looking miserable. Claude bites his lip.

“I’m sorry. She’s right, I shouldn’t… jump to conclusions.”

“You’ve always thought he was behind it. You’re probably right.” Lorenz’s head is bowed and his hair falls over his face, making it difficult to parse his expression. “He’s always had… too much interest in making sure I became a _proper heir_. I’m not sure why I expected adulthood to be any different.”

For once, Claude is at a loss for words. The fluorescent lights overhead bathe Lorenz in a cold, impersonal glow that makes him seem even paler than usual, stark against the high, dark collar of his coat. Claude has never seen him look to fragile.

“The police are… continuing to investigate?” he ventures.

“Yes. I have informed them of your—our—suspicions, and the situation with my father. But I don’t expect they’ll find anything that leads directly to him. He’s a businessman, first and foremost, but he sat at the Roundtable once upon a time. He knows how to cover his tracks, and how to get his way when the huntsman is too persistent.”

Claude rubs his eyebrow tiredly. “Have you thought about confronting him directly?”

Lorenz looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “And what, pray tell, would that achieve?”

“It would get you an answer, one way or another. Maybe it’s not the most prudent, but it’s certainly hard to lie your way out of a face-to-face encounter when you’re not expecting it.”

“You underestimate my father if you think he’s unprepared for any potential outcome.”

Claude leans forward a little in his chair, trying to glimpse beneath the brittle mask of Lorenz’s expression. “Lorenz… I’m not doubting his craftiness, but have you considered that maybe your judgment is a little… biased when it comes to your father?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t… want to presume,” Claude ventures, continuing when Lorenz gives him a nod of encouragement. “I don’t know much about your relationship, but it’s clear you are very different people.”

Lorenz huffs. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to be diplomatic, here.” Claude worries the signet ring on his left hand with an anxious thumb, a bad habit he’ll have to break himself of during the conference—but for now it helps hold him steady. “Can I ask you something, Lorenz?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Are you afraid of your father?”

Lorenz grimaces. “Diplomatic, indeed.”

“Sometimes a direct approach has its uses. For example, I got my answer from the look on your face just now—but I’d still like to hear it from you, if you want to give it.”

“I think it’s evident that I am. I have every reason to be.” Lorenz flops back in his seat and stretches his legs out, slapdash and disgruntled. “I wasn’t always, I don’t think… but now I’m remembering things, little moments…”

“Like what?”

“I don’t suppose you remember, second semester of freshman year… I came back with the worst haircut.”

“I do remember, actually.” Claude finds himself nervous for reasons he can’t explain. Perhaps his memories of teasing Lorenz mercilessly over it have something to do with it.

“That was… his doing. I hadn’t touched it since school began and it was nearly to my shoulders.” He draws his fingers through the long violet strands laying against his lapel, hardly seeming to realize he’s doing it. “When I came home for winter break, he was furious. Said I looked like a girl. That no son of his was going to go parading around looking like a _poof_.” He spits the word out and Claude flinches, as struck by the articulation as if someone had thrown a pebble at his face. “He sat me down in the kitchen, put a bowl over my head, and cut it himself. I have never been so humiliated in my life.”

Claude forces himself to take a few deep breaths before replying. “With all due respect, Lorenz… your father can go to hell.”

“Oh, I quite agree.”

“I’ll help him along if you like, just say the word.”

Lorenz’s mask finally cracks, revealing the barest suggestion of a smile underneath. “I appreciate the offer. But we’re not headstrong boys anymore—there are better ways to have my revenge. More… long term.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“My father is approaching retirement age. If my… rather public affairs have not completely alienated me from the board of directors, I’ll be in line for CEO. And when that day comes, I intend to see to it that Gloucester Tech moves in a more… open-minded direction. My father has kept it mired in the past for too long. Just as he did with me.”

Claude longs to reach out and rub the furrowed frown away from his brow, but he refrains. “Count me in. Whatever I can do to help. And in the meantime, let’s keep on keeping an eye on dear old dad. He’ll trip up eventually—everyone does.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Lorenz looks like he’s about to say more, but their conversation is cut short by the crackle of the intercom coming to life, announcing the imminent boarding of their flight. He stands instead, patting down his coat and double-checking for wallet and passport and phone. Claude stands, too, and allows himself a familiar squeeze to Lorenz’s shoulder before drifting to collect his carryon from Hilda.

He’d been hoping to sleep on the plane, but now something tells him he’s going to be awake for many hours yet. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Lorenz will stay awake to keep him company.

><

“Oi! It’s Gloucester!” Caspar hollered, voice strangely muffled. When Claude rounded the corner into the other boy’s bedroom, Caspar was half-hanging out the window, waving jubilantly at the long, dark car that had just pulled up. “Welcome!” he boomed, “to the Black Eagles house!”

“We’re not naming it that,” Claude said, yanking him back by his belt loops. Lin would kill him if he let his boyfriend fall to his death before classes even started. “We’ve talked about this, Cas.”

“What! I think it’s a really good name!”

“Sure it is, but Edelgard came up with it first and her pet Slenderman will kill us all in our sleep if she finds out we’ve stolen it.”

“Aw jeez, Claude, don’t say things like that.” Caspar shivered and rubbed his arms exaggeratedly. “That dude creeps me the hell out. And hey! You distracted me!” His elbow flew indiscriminately into Claude’s ribcage as he sprang past him, making for the stairs. “C’mon, come help bring in his stuff, he’s probably got a million boxes of fancy shit to haul in—!”

Despite its volume, Caspar’s voice faded into nothing as he bounded down to the first floor. It was a miracle he didn’t sprain something on the way down. Rubbing his forehead, Claude leaned surreptitiously against the open window and looked out.

It was the Gloucester town car all right, sleek and old-fashioned, the chrome wheel caps shining like new silver despite the long drive. Lorenz was already at the trunk, gamely struggling with a hefty-looking suitcase, when Caspar careened toward him and immediately took it off his hands. Caspar may have been short, but he was probably the strongest guy in their house, and he wielded the luggage like it was nothing while spindly, knock-kneed Lorenz looked on in sweat-dappled relief.

His hair was longer, Claude noted. Whatever weird phase he’d gone through freshman year, two semesters and a summer break had grown it out even longer than it was when he first enrolled at Garreg Mach, and now it wisped charmingly around his face in an effort to escape the chic little tail he’d tied it back in.

Lorenz threw his head back and laughed at something Caspar said, and Claude drew back from the window, heart pounding strangely. It wasn’t as if it were a crime to look out of windows, but he suddenly felt that it would be embarrassing to be caught staring.

Luckily the strange feeling had dissipated by the time he reached the first floor landing, just in time to watch Caspar lug half of Lorenz’s things through the door. It was no trouble at all to slide down the bannister—ignoring Lorenz’s undignified yelp—and yank his gangly friend into a hug, practically lifting him off his feet despite the height difference.

“Welcome,” he intoned, once Lorenz was back on solid ground, “to the Golden Deer house.”

“I’m sorry, the golden _what_—?”

“Aw man, c’mon, deer aren’t as cool as eagles! Or lions,” Caspar whined.

Lorenz looked between them, bewildered. “You mean our house doesn’t even have a name yet?”

“We have until classes start to decide,” Claude said. “We’ll put it to a vote, Cas, how’s that.”

“What are we putting to a vote? Oh, hullo Lorenz. Welcome to the Black Ea—”

“Black Eagles has already been taken!” Claude exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. Linhardt blinked at him reproachfully. “Edelgard’s house turned their paperwork in before us, all right, I’m sorry.”

“Then what about the… the _Red Eagles_. No, the _Crimson—_no wait, the _Blood Eagles_!!”

“Eurgh,” Linhardt groaned. “No thank you.”

“We’re not gonna be the _blood_ anything.” Claude drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much next to Lorenz and Linhardt, but it _did_ put him above Caspar, which was what really mattered. “My humble suggestion relates to an old Leicester legend. Deer are sacred there.” He wiggled his fingers mysteriously. “Guardian spirits of the hills…”

Caspar pouted and dug his toe into the floor. “I still think eagles are cooler.”

Lorenz cleared his throat. “Did you know, Caspar, that wild deer are actually quite formidable? Bucks frequently duel one another for the best mate, and in the fall they scrape their antlers against trees until the velvet comes off in bloody strips—it’s quite a gruesome, terrifying sight.”

Linhardt went pale and beat a hasty retreat, but Caspar, of course, was thrilled by this news. “What! That’s so cool, I’m gonna go look up pictures. Maybe we can be the Golden Deer after all.”

He scampered away, leaving his burdens behind, and Claude shared a rueful look with Lorenz. “Thank you for that. I should have led with the gory stuff.”

Lorenz shrugged delicately and picked up one of the abandoned bags. “I like the name. It’s certainly preferable to the _Fighting Dinosaur_ house, or whatever nonsense Caspar would come up with if left to his own devices.”

“Ha! That might not be so bad, actually—wait til you hear what Hubert named _his_ house.” He bent down and hefted the bigger suitcase into his arms. It was heavy, but stifling the exertion was worth it for the glimmer of admiration on Lorenz’s face. “C’mon, there’s two rooms left to pick from before our last underclassman gets here.”

“We’re not sharing?” Lorenz asked.

Claude’s ego perked up a little at the disappointment in his voice. “I mean, we definitely can, if you want. I’m not picky either way. It’s just that Lin and Caspar are sharing, so there’s an extra room. I guess we could turn it into, I dunno, a media center or something… Caspar’s brother gifted him a projector, we could hook that up with a bedsheet and have a movie theatre _in our house_.”

The idea was broached with Caspar and Linhardt and was met with great enthusiasm, and so it was decided. The next hour was spent moving Lorenz’s things into Claude’s room. It was the biggest bedroom in the house—naturally, since Claude was the fraternity leader—and there was plenty of room, but he still felt as if they were always knocking into each other. Which was unfortunate, because now that Claude had noticed it, he could _stop_ noticing that Lorenz was… well, pretty.

_Pretty_ wasn’t his usual type. Claude had a thing for people who could pick him up with one hand, who were athletic and sturdy and took up space. Lorenz was a bit of an odd duck, and also a daddy’s boy; and he was _annoying_. Despite their now-stable friendship, he still frequently made Claude want to put his head through a wall at the dense bullshit that came out of him sometimes. And yet. There was an elegance to him that Claude was learning to appreciate. Sure, maybe he tried too hard sometimes, but it was… cute, in a way.

Lorenz finally retreated to shower off the day’s exertions and Claude escaped downstairs to welcome Cyril, a taciturn sophomore who didn’t seem intimidated to be the youngest of the bunch. Going through the motions of his house leaderly duties helped settle him, and by the time evening rolled around—and with it a boisterous, open-door party to welcome all their friends back to Garreg Mach—he’d managed to brush the odd hyperawareness of Lorenz out of his head.

It was fine. Crushes happened to him all the time—this one was just particularly unexpected, and particularly unfortunate. He didn’t make a habit of falling for straight men if he could help it, but accidents happened. He would just put it out of his mind and spend half an hour making out with someone in an upstairs closet. That would set him back to rights.

><

“Goddess, I’d like to sleep for a week.”

“I hate to break the news, sweetheart, but I can give you… five hours.” Claude braces his hands at the small of his back and leans backward until his spine pops with a groan of relief. “Flames, I can’t complain about the flight, but I’d almost rather have gone by boat.”

“No, thank you,” Lorenz says with a shudder. “Travel by ship makes me ill.” He toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and falls face-first onto the king-sized bed with an _oomph_. Claude, still befuddled from the flight and the time difference, reaches out and swats him on the rear. “_Claude_!”

“Sorry. It was just _right there_.”

Lorenz props himself up on his elbows and glowers over one shoulder—but his lips are twitching beneath the fall of his hair over his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m_ exhausted_. Budge up, there’s plenty of room on this mattress for the both of us.”

With only a little grumbling, Lorenz moves over until Claude can sprawl on the well-padded duvet beside him. He’s hardly settled himself before Lorenz is tucked up against his side, not unlike the position they’d fallen into the last time Lorenz spent the night. A hard knot of uncertainty unwinds beneath his breastbone, and he curls his arm around Lorenz as he mumbles and presses his face into Claude’s collar.

“Hey, there.” Claude spreads his hand between Lorenz’s shoulder blades, feeling the way his spine softens in repose. “All right?”

“Better, now.”

Lorenz does not clarify whether he means the bed, or the touch of Claude’s hand, and Claude is too tongue-tied to ask. Instead he lays quite still, listening to the slowing rhythm of Lorenz’s breath. Claude’s own eyelids feel heavy and prickly from the dry air of the plane, but he forces them open just to watch the elegant drape of lavender eyelashes across a pale cheek, like new-spun lace laid across silk.

A warm waft of breath touches his neck—a damp exhale that lifts the thrum of his pulse out of lethargy. But Lorenz is well and truly asleep, for he doesn’t stir when Claude strokes his fingertips through the fine hair at his temple.

Sleep tugs at him, insistent, but Claude rubs the grit from his eyes and props his phone in his hand to scroll mindlessly through emails. The warm weight of Lorenz against him is too great a comfort to waste by sleeping.

And it’s not like he hadn’t slept on the plane—he _had_, for at least a couple of hours. He’d woken to find his cheek smushed against Lorenz’s shoulder and a piercing glimmer of sunlight slipping through the drawn shade, and then the thrill of it, of finally looking down onto brilliant blue Almyran water, kept him from finding sleep again.

He doesn’t mind. Better to stay up now, anyway, push through the evening’s dinner, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. Fend off the jet lag as long as possible.

A soft _beep _from the main room jerks him out of a half-doze some time later. His phone is still open on his stomach, so he can’t have been out of it for too long. Lorenz still sleeps against him, warm and a bit bony, but more comfortable than he has any right to be. His slow, even breaths draw Claude’s tender gaze, and he’s slow to pull it away even when Hilda appears in the doorway to check on him.

“I brought coffee,” she whispers, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “I figured you wouldn’t want to sleep.”

“I’ll get it in a minute.” He listens keenly for the slightest change in Lorenz’s breathing patterns, but they remain steady and unspoiled. “I don’t want to wake him.”

“He’s asleep already?”

"Like the dead."

She purses her lips and comes further into the bedroom to avoid raising her voice, perching at the edge of the bed on Claude’s other side. She looks unfairly put together after the flight, already showered and changed into a fresh twinset and her highest, most intimidating heels. He tries to imagine her pushing the coffee service down the hall in those, nose high, phone in one hand, and stifles a giggle.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, you know,” she murmurs, dark pink lips pursed disapprovingly. “Pretending this is real."

Goddess, he is _not_ in the right frame of mind to deal with this right now. "Hil…"

"I just don't want to see you get hurt, baby.” She reaches out and puts his phone face down on the mattress, taking his hand once it’s free. “Acting in front of a crowd is one thing, but you have to remember he isn't really yours."

Claude sets his jaw stubbornly and looks away. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even make something up, some lie about how she’s reading it all wrong—Hilda has always been able to read him. A terrifying talent, at first, and then a blessing in disguise. But right now he could do without the soul-searching.

"Oh, Claude.” Hilda sighs. “You're going to break your own heart if you're not careful."

"Don't _oh, Claude_ me.” He frees his hand from her gentle grip and rests it on his diaphragm, just a few inches from here Lorenz’s own hand rests. In his sleep, his two outer fingers have slipped innocently between the buttons of Claude’s shirt, and even the slightest touch against his bare skin warms him from the inside out. “I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."

"Uh-huh. If you say so.” Doubtful, but knowing him well enough to recognize a lost cause when it’s placed in front of her, Hilda straightens away from the bed and plugs his phone into the wall to charge. “The coffee will keep. Get some rest, Claude.”

“Thanks, Hil.” He yawns widely, nearly cracking his jaw in two. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’d be lost without me.” Nevertheless satisfied, she sashays from the room and lets herself out, the door of the suite clicking faintly behind her. Claude yawns again and tucked his nose into the fragrant crown of Lorenz’s head.

He’s asleep in less than two minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over the course of writing this I've sort of compiled a loose playlist of songs I associate with Claude and Lorenz and certain story beats. if I compiled that into something more concrete, would anyone be interested in that...? as always, thank you SO much for your support, it means the world to me!! <3 also, this is unbeta'ed, so if you see any glaring errors I'm happy to take (polite) constructive criticism haha.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Lorenz spring a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, HUGE thanks to ziek for beta'ing this chapter! it wouldn't be nearly as good without you!! <333 also thank you to ziek and the secret passions crew for helping me brainstorm Almyra stuff.
> 
> and lastly, Claude is a trans man in this fic! I like to use neutral language as much as possible, but there are also terms like "clit" and "mons" sprinkled about in reference to his genitalia, so if that's not a good time for you please be aware <3

Awareness creeps up on Lorenz slowly, percolating through him like the coffee he can smell wafting over the aromas of clean linen and faded aftershave. He isn’t entirely sure where he is at first, only that he’s warm and comfortable, and has a bit of morning wood pressing against the fly of his trousers.

He breathes in, deep, appreciative, and out again, rubbing his nose against soft skin. There’s an arm around him, firm and sturdy. Familiar. He blinks his eyes open. Sees a starched collar undone at a warm brown throat, the slight shadow of yesterday’s stubble on a strong jaw; feels the slow, dull thud of a heartbeat in the chest beneath his hand. At this angle he can see down the front of Claude’s shirt a little, to dark, curling hair and the comfortable swell of a pectoral.

To his horror, he feels himself getting harder. He pulls himself away as delicately as he can, slipping out from under Claude’s arm. The other man is fast asleep, thank goodness, mouth open on a soundless snore. It should be incredibly unflattering, but Lorenz is charmed. He allows himself to look a little longer, admiring Claude’s broad shoulders and long lashes, before dragging himself out of bed to scope out the rest of the hotel suite.

It’s just the two of them in the whole place, but a coffee service rests on a cart out in the main room, so someone—Hilda, or one of the hotel staff—has been by. Recently, too, judging by the warmth of the pot. He blushes to think of the open bedroom door. Ridiculous, considering the ruse, but he can’t help wondering what Hilda would think to see them like that.

His brief reconnaissance mission hasn’t diminished his arousal by much, and Claude is still asleep, so Lorenz quietly collects his toiletries and retreats to the bathroom. There he finds a very elegant shower—with a clear glass door, unfortunately, but at least the door locks behind him—and a separate jacuzzi, with the toilet partitioned discreetly behind a half-wall. There are no windows. With a sigh of relief, Lorenz locks the door behind him and turns on the hot water.

It’s been a while since he’s taken any time for himself. Despite the awkwardness of getting a stiffy while cuddled up next to a man he’s only _pretending_ to date, his body is eager for the attention. The water feels like silk against his skin, and his blood rushes hot as he stands beneath it, eyes shut, dragging his hands idly down his chest and belly to his cock.

The hum of the fan and the rush of water cover his small sighs, but he still covers his mouth with one hand as the other plays idly with his length. Forward and back, teasing the foreskin, pinching until he’s fully hard and exposed; then licking his forefingers and slicking them in circles over the head, each careful touch like an electric shock. He bites his lip and drops his other hand to his chest, tweaking a nipple til it’s pink.

_Look at you. So beautiful. Blushing so pretty for me._

Lorenz slaps a hand over his mouth and tightens his grip on his cock. This is… inadvisable. Borderline inappropriate, surely. And yet he can see Claude in his mind’s eye as clear as day, smirking, tongue between his teeth as he goes to his knees…

Oh, this is a very bad idea. Lorenz gulps for air and swallows water, eyes still shut as he slides his left hand, soap-slick, down to fondle his bollocks and then beyond… gliding, probing…

Claude’s fingers are thicker than his own. The thought hits him hard enough to leave him gasping, leaning against the cool tile wall as he knuckles hard against his perineum. His right hand slows around his prick, just tugging idly as he toys with himself. _What would they feel like? Rough, impatient, or gentle and soft… _

Claude is mischievous, it’s true, but he has a deep propensity for tenderness that Lorenz considers himself lucky to witness firsthand. Waking up in his arms, now a common thread woven through the tapestry of their relationship, makes it easy to imagine Claude’s hands on him in a different way, touching his cheek, stroking his sides, parting his thighs… Lorenz presses the pads of his fingers up against his own prostate and jerks forward, precum welling up against his thumb. His intimacies with other people have never extended this far, but he knows Claude would be gentle with him.

At least until he asked for otherwise.

The thought seizes him in an implacable grip. Panting for breath, he reaches for the complimentary soap, hands fumbling with the damp cardboard packaging. When he gets it free, it lathers quickly and smells of Almyran pine. Like _Claude_. Choking back an undignified groan, Lorenz slicks his hands with it and focuses his attention on his cock. It’s good, it’s _so_ good, particularly with the imagined press of Claude’s fingers at his hips—but this is a shared suite, and while the idea of Claude walking in on him is shockingly erotic in theory, the reality would likely not be so kind.

So he makes the most of the time he has. Imagines Claude’s breath on his neck, imagines his bare thighs, his chest, his strong shoulders. Imagines that wild, feral grin of his when he’s had an idea; the plush, red-bitten color of his lower lip when it’s been kissed.

What would it be like, kissing him for real? No pretense, just ache and desire? Lips cleaving together, hands tangled, shoved up against a wall—Claude’s thigh between his own. Tongues entwined, hot breath on his cheek. Lorenz whines around his knuckles and speeds the stroke of his hand. Desire billows up inside him, insistent, as expansive as a hot air balloon. He shoves three fingers into his mouth to shut himself up and imagines they’re Claude’s. Imagines hands in his hair, on his cock, in his ass, warm whispers of encouragement in his ear—_oh Lorenz, you’re perfect, that’s it, let go for me—_

With a stifled yelp, Lorenz comes hard, the evidence of his desire splattered against the tile and washed away in the same moment. As if it had never been.

There’s a seat at the other end of the shower stall, built from the same warm sandstone tile as the rest. Lorenz lowers himself onto it with shaking knees and braces his hands against it as the water beats down against his shoulders, unceasing. The aftershocks still zing through him as he struggles to breathe normally. His toes curl against the tile—slowly, his cock softens between his legs, shrinking to lay docile in its nest of well-trimmed purple hair, still sudsy and slick.

“Fuck,” Lorenz sighs. He tips his head forward and lets the water stream through his hair, pulling it forward to run over his face. His cheeks are still hot. At least he can blame it on the shower.

He takes his time with the rest of his ablutions, making use of the complimentary silk bathrobes as he brushes his hair dry and dabs primer beneath his eyes to diminish the bruises of jetlag. By the time he adjourns from the bathroom, he’s feeling more like himself, ready to face the evening’s activities. Claude, still in bed, is just beginning to stir.

“Morning, sunshine.” Lorenz swoops in to kiss his forehead, just because. Still sleepy and soft around the edges, Claude’s dopey smile sends his heart fluttering.

“Morning yourself. How long did I sleep?”

“Oh, just an hour or so. The bathroom is free if you want it. _I _am going to have some coffee, I think.”

“Coffee? You?” Heedless of Lorenz’s presence in the room as he rifles through his luggage, Claude sits at the edge of the bed and begins to unbutton his shirt. “I’m sure if you rang for tea they’d be happy to oblige you.”

“Normally I would, but I need something a little stronger.” Lorenz glances at him and away again, hiding behind his hair as he selects a simple black suit with a charcoal waistcoat. The lining is red silk, matching the elegant red rose stitching on the breast pocket—a tiny bit of flair to put a spring in his step. He focuses on the embroidery rather than the way Claude groans as he stretches his bare arms over his head.

“Save some for me,” is all he says, leaving his shirt behind as he pads half-naked to the bathroom.

Lorenz dresses himself briskly before attending to the coffee service, but he hasn’t even finished buttoning up his shirt when there’s a call from the bathroom. He goes to the door and opens it a crack, eyes averted despite the steam fogging up the glass. “What was that?”

“I forgot to grab my toiletry bag—it’s in the side of my suitcase. Would you mind grabbing it for me?”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “Yes, dear.”

He leaves the door ajar and goes to Claude’s luggage, still standing upright and unpacked from when they first arrived. With his luck, everything will be rumpled and unwearable for dinner tonight. With precise movements, Lorenz removes a dark navy suit jacket and matching trousers to hang up for him, and dives into one of the side pouches.

No toiletry bag emerges, to his horror—only a half-used bottle of personal lubricant. He drops it as soon as he reads the label, adrenaline rushing through him like a stiff breeze. Something else is in the pocket, done up in a smallish velvet bag. Lorenz licks his lips. He shouldn’t. He really—

Before his curiosity can get the better of him, he replaces the bottle and does up the zipper. _Absolutely not_, he tells himself, face hotter than a wildfire as he seeks out the aforementioned toiletry bag with considerably more discretion. _How Claude chooses to entertain himself is none of your business. _

“Here you are,” he says briskly, returning to the bathroom as though nothing untoward had occurred. He plans to set the bag on the counter, or pass it off in a hurry and make his escape without meeting Claude’s eyes—but fate has other plans.

His figure smokey behind the fogged glass, Claude reaches up to turn the shower head slightly, aiming the spray at the wall, and slides the door open entirely. Lorenz’s eyes, traitors that they are, fasten immediately on his chest: soaking wet, hair flat against his wet skin, droplets of water pearling up between streaks of white suds that trail down from his wild hair. His eyes drop to the floor, but their journey is a little more meandering than appropriate, catching on his belly, his strong thighs and the dark thatch of hair between them. By the time he’s staring at Claude’s feet, it feels like ten minutes have passed instead of a mere heartbeat.

“Thanks,” Claude says, entirely at ease as he reaches out a hand.

“You’re dripping water all over the floor,” Lorenz snaps. He shoves the bag into his hand and flees, practically slamming the door behind him and trying valiantly to ignore the soft chuckles he can hear coming from the bathroom.

_What_ did Claude mean by it? Had he somehow divined Lorenz’s most private admirations, and intended to mock him for it? Surely he wouldn’t be so cruel. Had he… Goddess forbid, had he _felt_ Lorenz’s arousal earlier? Was this some sort of twisted joke to fluster him in retribution?

Lorenz takes a steadying breath, back to the door, and straightens his shoulders. Most likely, it had been nothing at all—just Claude’s strange comfort with his own nudity, something Lorenz has forgotten in the years since they were in school together. Just because Lorenz is hyper-aware of Claude’s… physical charms, doesn’t mean he has to behave any differently toward him. He’ll just bundle it up and stuff it down somewhere it can’t be unearthed. He’s good at that.

And that is that. Done and dusted. Still blushing faintly, he finishes dressing and pours himself a generous cup of coffee. Goddess knows he’s going to need it.

><><

Lorenz is accustomed to rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful, but even he is a little dumbstruck at the conference’s extensive guest-list. Royalty from many different nations is in attendance, as well as elected officials, politicians, critics, moderators, and patrons who bend their wealth toward the needs of nations. His own family fortune is old money, and nothing to sneeze at, but he can hardly be blamed for feeling small beside such giants as Duke Fraldarius himself, or the princess of Brigid and her extensive retinue of bodyguards.

Thankfully, the evening meal passes pleasantly enough. They are seated at a table with a collection of foreign dignitaries of similar standing, among them the ambassador from Dagda and her wife, who are both excellent conversationalists and keep Lorenz occupied while Claude engages in a rapidfire conversation in Almyran with the junior treasurer of the Royal Almyran Council.

He has never seen Claude quite like this, so clearly in his element. Speaking his mother tongue, dressed not in the suit Lorenz laid out for him but in a traditional kaftan and loose trousers with a sash across the front, he looks handsome and regal and comfortable in his own skin.

He’s not the only one dressed in the local style, but he’s the only Fódlaner representative attired thusly—that must be the reason for the stares he attracts from a few different quarters. Either that, or his good looks are just as noticeable to the general populace as they are to Lorenz. The stares certainly aren’t derisive or ill-intentioned, and Shamir, hovering at the fringes of the room with a whole host of other bodyguards, does not seem bothered, so Lorenz takes it in stride.

Once dinner has been cleared away to make way for coffee and dessert, the lights dim a little in the banquet hall and the evening’s keynote speaker steps up to the podium: Farid Barbarossa, the heir to the Almyran throne. Lorenz has never seen him in person, only in the news. He’s a tall man, but otherwise not particularly remarkable to look at—not the sort of man who looked as though he would one day inherit a country. He greets them in Almyran, but delivers the rest of his speech in Fódlan Basic, and _there_ his position reveals itself in his charismatic manner, his smooth, practiced delivery. Lorenz has seen his share of speeches in the last few months alone, and while Claude is _very_ good in front of a crowd, this man holds the room in the palm of his hand for nearly an hour without breaking a sweat.

Afterward, the tables are cleared and a self-serve tea and coffee bar is laid out for those who wish to linger. Curtains on the far side of the room are pulled aside and tall glass doors opened onto a wide veranda, admitting a cool, refreshing waft of mountain air. Lorenz hasn’t had a proper view of their location since they arrived, and intends to hook an arm through Claude’s and angle them both in that direction—but fate has other plans.

Shamir slips discreetly into his field of view as they stand from their table, putting a hand to his elbow. “If I could have a word, Lorenz.”

“Of course.” Lorenz glances over his shoulder at Claude, who passes him a distracted smile—Hilda has descended upon him in tandem, it seems, and is whispering something in his ear. Curious. What could they be scheming? “Should Claude come as well?”

“It’s not necessary, but he can come if he likes.”

Claude waves him off, turning to face Hilda more fully, and Lorenz reluctantly allows himself to be led away from the hustle and bustle of the social elite to a private corner of the veranda. It’s too dark to see much, but his hungry eyes drink it in anyway: the hotel lights bathing the steep slopes around them in a pale light, the fringes of cedar and juniper clinging to bare rock. He takes a deep, cleansing breath, and turns to face his bodyguard.

“I have an update for you,” Shamir says quietly. She stands angled just slightly askance, hands folded behind her back, not unlike a soldier at parade rest as she prepares to deliver her report. “Before you alarm yourself, it’s good news.”

Lorenz huffs and braces his hands on the railing, peering out into the dark. “Noted. Continue, please.”

“I believe your father’s… employee… is in attendance tonight, and likely for the rest of the weekend. I have a plan to draw him out and take care of him, but I will need your cooperation, and Claude’s.”

“What do you mean by… _take care of him_?”

“Nothing lethal, I assure you.” She sounds bored at the very idea, as though they’re discussing the ripeness of avocados at the grocery. “But I am determined to take him out of the picture.”

“My father will likely only hire someone else,” Lorenz says gloomily once the initial wave of relief has passed over, leaving him high and dry like a beached fish above the tideline.

“Not if we get enough information out of his man to bring him before a judge.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Or confront him privately, whatever you prefer.”

Lorenz seals his lips together and says nothing.

“So. The plan. You may enact it whenever you wish; only inform me beforehand so that I can get into position. Tonight is preferable. Better to strike while he’s at his ease, before he suspects that he’s been discovered. You and Claude should go for a little walk away from the main hotel. There are some very nice walking trails in the woods just there. Not very well lit. He will follow. Distract him, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Lorenz’s face suddenly feels hot. “Distract him…?”

“Must I spell it out for you?” Shamir sighs. “You’ve perfected the art of feigned physical intimacy by now, surely. Push your beau against a tree and have your way with him for all I care—just make sure you take your time about it. Give him time to settle in and get some photos. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Lorenz whispers. _Feigned_, indeed. If only that were still the case. He puts his hands in his pockets, suddenly chilled, and wonders where Claude has gone off to.

><><

“He wants to see me _now_?” Claude whispers, glancing over his shoulder. Lorenz is listening to whatever Shamir came over to impart, thank goodness—hopefully the distraction will last a little longer.

“I’ll keep Lorenz occupied if they finish their little chat early.” She tilts her head in the opposite direction. “Come on, best not to keep him waiting.”

With a sigh and a parting glance at Lorenz, Claude turns and follows Hilda out of the main banquet hall into a smaller salon off to one side. Two formidable guards stand in front of the door, hands folded, faces blank and expressionless, but they part for them without a word. The salon beyond is small and windowless, but elegant, with a tea service to the side and a sitting area for special guests to relax before and after appearances. The man on the couch stands as they enter and comes forward, grinning, arms extended to pull Claude into a tight embrace.

“Khalid, _selam_. I’m delighted to see you, it’s been too long.”

“Hello Farid,” Claude replies, smiling as they exchange cheek kisses. Hilda sees herself out and he switches to Almyran. “Your speech was excellent, as usual. I could learn a thing or two from you.”

“Ha! Very generous of you, cousin. We are both well aware of your talents.” Farid squeezes his shoulder and gestures to the couch, where tea has already been poured into glass cups, steaming invitingly. “Will you sit and talk a while? I know this is a bit informal, but I didn’t want to impose on your time too egregiously.”

“It’s not an imposition.” Claude sits and accepts the tea gratefully, letting the plush brocade couch envelope him like an embrace. “I probably shouldn’t stay too long, or else my—partner will miss me.”

Farid’s eyebrows draw together slightly. “He is certainly welcome to join us, of course. Let your assistant know, have her bring him here.”

“He doesn’t…” Claude begins, and trails off, a quiet knot of dread forming in his stomach. He cannot meet his cousin’s eyes. “I haven’t apprised him of my parentage.”

Farid is silent for a long moment. “I see.” He sips his tea, an innocent gesture that is somehow laden with tacit disapproval. “Forgive me, I assumed you had. Or do I misremember the weave of your sash?”

The nape of his neck burns hot and he glances at the sash Farid himself wears, woven green and gold and black—the colors of the royal family. His own is similar, but with a stronger weave of traditional Leicester yellow through the middle. Enough to baffle the average Fódlaner, but any Almyran native would see the border weave and know him for a distant relation to the Barbarossa house, at least. “It felt appropriate for tonight, that’s all. I don’t mean to wear it the rest of the weekend.”

“Tonight may be more than enough. An _hour_ would be enough. I’m certainly not the only one who’s noticed.”

“I don’t intend to hide it forever. Not from Lorenz, and not from the public.”

Farid cocks an eyebrow. “This won’t damage your reputation in your home country?”

“Even if it did, once I’m Councilman, it won’t matter. Dual citizenship hasn’t prevented me from running for office. And I’m not a prince anymore, anyway, not really.” He grins and tips the rim of his glass against Farid’s. “That honor belongs to you, my friend.”

“Nevertheless.” Farid’s smile goes coy, dark eyes glinting as he surveys Claude over the rim of his cup. “There is always a place for you here. If you want it.”

Of all the things he could have said, Claude wasn’t expecting _that. _“Beg pardon?”

“You’re well-educated, well-spoken, and cleverer than most people clamoring to dip their hands into Court affairs. I would be a lucky man indeed to have you on the Royal Council. If your election doesn’t pan out the way you hope, just know that you have options.”

Claude can’t help but laugh. “That is incredibly generous of you, cousin, but I’m not sure my parents would approve.”

“And when have you ever done anything in your life to garner their approval?”

“A fair point.” He smiles politely and sips his tea, and tries not to feel the warm coaxing of temptation at the offer. “I appreciate it, truly. Perhaps if my plans don’t pan out over the next few years I will consider it.”

“My door is always open.” Farid nods, satisfied, and makes a few more minutes of pleasant conversation before letting him go. Claude embraces him one more time and departs, head swirling. The sash across his chest and waist suddenly feels like a beacon.

He needs to find Lorenz.

><><

Hilda joins him at the railing not long after Shamir fades back into the shadows, and Lorenz is grateful for her easy company. She’s up to his chin in those heels of hers, and he keeps getting whiffs of strawberry and buttercream from whatever product she uses to keep her hair neat and shiny. It’s a singular grounding detail that keeps him from worrying himself into a hole, even though her conversation, likely intended for the same purpose, flows through his head like water without sticking.

He’s too distracted to even ask where Claude has gone off to, so when he appears suddenly at his opposite elbow, Lorenz is hard pressed not to flinch in shock.

“Hey there.” Claude puts a hand to his waist, smiling, but his eyes are elsewhere. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Everything good?”

“Everything is lovely.” Lorenz presses a kiss to his forehead, right where a dark curl of hair winds free of its brethren. The simple gesture seems to wake Claude up a bit, bringing him out of his weary daze, and he gets a squeeze around the waist in return. Hilda makes some weak excuse and leaves them be, and Lorenz withholds a sigh as Claude leans up to kiss him briefly. “I have news,” he murmurs against his lips.

“Oh?” Claude subsides, sinking back onto his heels as his free hand smooths the front of his kaftan flat. “Good news, I hope.”

Lorenz briefs him on Shamir’s instructions, and is gratified to watch Claude’s vaguely pleasant, polite-company expression harden into resolve. When he finishes, Claude nods and tugs him closer against his side.

“Seems easy enough. Shall we take care of it now, then?”

“If you’re amenable. I know it’s been a long day, but… the prospect of being done with this…”

“I’m with you.” Claude is stern, sturdy, a bulwark for Lorenz to lay his weight and worries against. He withdraws his arm from around Lorenz’s waist and takes his hand instead. Lorenz resists the urge to kiss the back of it. “Shall we go for a stroll, my love?”

“I’d be delighted.”

The veranda leads down a shallow flight of steps to a broad flagstone path, which leads to a fountain and some pretty topiary before splitting off into narrower trails. They are lit by low-lying solar lights that illuminate the path at even intervals, but still the dark envelops them, granting a measure of privacy. Truly there can be no such thing, Lorenz knows. Even here, an ocean and half a continent away, he feels that telltale prickle of unseen eyes on the back of his neck, and his hand in Claude’s goes clammy with sweat.

But he should at least make an _effort_ to appear normal, so he relaxes his shoulders and asks, “Where did you disappear to, earlier? I lost track of you in the crowd.”

“I’m sorry. I got waylaid.” Claude gives his hand a squeeze. “First Hilda wanted to go over some details for tomorrow, and then there were a few acquaintances who wanted to say hello…”

“Everything’s all right, with the weekend’s itinerary?”

“Oh yes, just fine.”

Conversation peters out as they approach the forest’s edge. The trees are tall and stately, and the smell of the woods is loamy and fragrant, not unlike the Almyran pine needle tea Claude favors, but… sharper. Woodier. The lights continue to guide the way, but they are well and truly out of eyesight of the hotel now, and likely out of earshot should either of them need to shout for help.

“Lorenz,” Claude says suddenly, as if he can feel the rapidfire pace of his nervous heart. “I wanted to say…”

“Yes?”

Claude draws them to a halt just inside the forest’s protective bower and turns to face him. His expression is hard to make out, with even the moonlight filtered by layers of fern-like branches. All Lorenz has to go on is the tone of his voice, low and ringing with sincerity. “You look lovely tonight.”

“I—thank you.” He’s grateful for the dark, suddenly, as heat crawls up his cheeks. “So do you. I’ve… never seen you wear this, before.” He reaches out and rubs the thick woven sash between his fingers, relishing the excuse to drag his knuckles along the warm planes of Claude’s chest.

“It’s Almyran. Well. I’m sure that’s obvious.” Claude laughs, a little self-conscious, lifting his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “It just felt like a nice gesture, for my first night back in my own… back in Almyra.”

“You still think of this as your home country, then.”

“Yes and no.” Claude hesitates, then pulls him gently forward a little, so that they’re standing in the mulch just off the path, the weight of a towering cedar at their backs. “It’s true, I was born here, but…” He lifts their joined hands and brushes his lips to Lorenz’s knuckles. “My home is wherever you are, dearest.”

_It’s an act, it’s just an act,_ Lorenz reminds himself, even as his heart trips and falls between his feet. His eyes have adjusted now, and he can see the curve of Claude’s smile as he leans into him. “Then it must follow,” he says quickly, before Claude can kiss him, “that because I am here, now, with you, that Almyra _is_ your home.”

Claude’s brow quirks. “A clever semantic interpretation, yes.”

“Do you never feel the urge to return? On a more permanent basis, I mean.” He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. He should probably shut up, and let Claude pretend to ravage him against this tree, so that Shamir can get on with it and do her job. But words keep bubbling out him, anxious and frenetic—with every advance Claude makes, Lorenz feels compelled to parry it, to draw out the space between them just a little longer.

“Sometimes I miss it. There’s a certain nostalgia associated with childhood, generally.” Claude puts his hands on Lorenz’s waist firmly, pinning him in place. The tree trunk meets his back abruptly and Lorenz jumps. “But I’ve made my choice. I’m forging my own path.” Another step brings them flush, chin tilted up to meet his starlit gaze. “And I’ve never once regretted it.”

This time Lorenz doesn’t stop him. A breath, two breaths, the cling of strong hands beneath his suit jacket. His lips are soft and almost tentative, like Claude is feeling him out, or maybe waiting to be rebuffed. But Lorenz meets him without flinching, sliding their mouths together soft and unhurried. Shallow at first, almost chaste, until Claude pulls Lorenz’s lower lip into his mouth, sucking, hands pressing him back against the tree. When he is released, Lorenz lets out a ragged gasp, practically deafened by the blood pounding harshly in his ears.

They part, briefly, but they don’t speak. A silent understanding has passed between them like the breath between their lips—if this is a ruse, they may as well enjoy it.

Feeling particularly hedonistic, Lorenz slides his fingers into Claude’s hair as they kiss. It’s thick and curly, but so impossibly soft, and Claude moans against his lips when he tugs on it, deep and resonant in his chest. A calloused thumb brushes the plane of Lorenz’s cheek and holds him still, and Lorenz trembles. There is a heat to their kisses that they’ve never had before, an intensity that trembles beneath his ribs like an anxious bird. Lorenz is grateful for the sturdy tree at his back as Claude pushes his tongue into his mouth and _takes_.

He is entirely at Claude’s mercy, and grateful for it. Claude’s hands massage his waist, teasing the stretch of silk shirt exposed between his belt and the hem of his waistcoat, and his hips, square and uncompromising against his own, are perhaps the only thing keeping Lorenz aloft. Each press of their lips comes away wet; Claude’s tongue is warm and clever. Lorenz can feel the hot rush of blood beneath his skin with every press, every slick glide, and he is desperately hungry for it.

He only realizes he’s hard when Claude’s thigh shifts between both of his. A strangled grunt escapes him, thoroughly undignified, not the smooth, seductive manner he’d always envisioned in his most private fantasies. He jerks back, but there’s nowhere to go—the tree is behind him, Claude before him, eyes glittering and breath coming harsh against Lorenz’s throat as his sturdy, muscled thigh shifts cruelly against Lorenz’s weakness.

“Claude,” he rasps, fumbling with the threads of propriety even as they scatter to the four winds, desperate to salvage this. “I’m—”

“Shhhh.” Claude nuzzles his throat, lips grazing just above his collar. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

Claude’s left hand moves, skating over belt and fly, to gently tease the front of Lorenz’s trousers. The barest brush, and yet his cock jerks in his underwear at the tease. Lorenz wants to sob—wants to push Claude back—wants to take his hand and shove it down his pants and have done with it. He thinks of his capitulation earlier, in the shower, and a tremor runs through him, a hot bolt of shame and wanting.

The knowledge that somewhere, out there in the dark, someone has a camera trained on them only incites his passions; a confusing cocktail that pounds relentless in his blood.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Claude whispers, hardly more than an exhale against his ear. Still, he withdraws slightly, gripping Lorenz’s thigh instead as his hips push him harder against the tree. He laughs softly, giddy, as Lorenz digs his fingers into his waist and holds on for dear life. “I’m hard, too. Wanna feel?”

_Goddess. _Lorenz nearly shames himself right there in his trousers, electrified and embarrassed, and lacking the wherewithal to untangle one from the other. But he is saved by a shrill sound that splits the hot night air in two: an incoming text. He finally gathers the strength to push Claude away, and digs his phone out to read it.

“It’s Shamir,” he whispers, trying to sound as though his heart isn’t galloping off into the distance, leaving him gutted and fragile in its wake. He turns the phone to Claude.

> **Taken care of. We’ll reconvene tomorrow, 7AM.**

“Good. Excellent.” Claude is breathing hard, too. He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping off saliva that is not his own. Lorenz nearly shrivels to the ground at the thought. “Mission accomplished, then.”

“Indeed.”

But Lorenz cannot move—he’s quite sure the tree at his back is the only thing keeping him upright. Between his legs, his erection still throbs, undaunted by the brief interruption, and he’s sweating lightly despite the cool air, lips still tingling from Claude’s attentions. _What now? _

“Shall we… head back?” Claude offers. He reaches out carefully, and when Lorenz doesn’t shy away, he hooks their arms together, giving him another anchor point to stick his courage to. “To our rooms, I mean. I know a shortcut.”

“That would be most welcome.”

Lorenz swallows and finally stands upright away from the tree. He wavers a moment, embarrassed, before giving in and adjusting himself in his trousers. It’s still uncomfortable, but better than walking all the way back to their suite with his prick trying to bore its way out through his pant leg. Claude smiles a little, he thinks—it’s hard to tell in the dark—but says nothing, simply leads the way out of the trees and back to the hotel, swinging wide to avoid the veranda where a few people still mingle.

It’s a long, awkward, painfully silent walk, but at least they don’t run into anyone. When the door to their suite slides shut behind them, Lorenz sighs with relief and starts forward, meaning to escape to the bathroom and take care of things before he embarrasses himself further. But Claude won’t let go, and he jerks to a stop, face flaming up afresh.

“I meant what I said before,” Claude says softly. Here in the dim, filtered light coming from the lamp they’d left on in the sitting area, his face is warm and his eyes are deep green pools, pinning Lorenz in place as effectively as his hands had done in the cedar grove. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s only natural. And if it’s been as long for you as it has been for me…”

“Longer, perhaps,” Lorenz whispers. He wets his lips nervously and Claude’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Forgive me, I—”

“Hush. There’s nothing to forgive.” Claude swallows. “If I came on too strong, back there…”

“No, it’s. It was good. It was.” Lorenz takes a steadying breath and drops his eyes, unable to meet the smile creeping across Claude’s handsome face. _It isn’t fair that he’s so beautiful, it isn’t **fair**_…

“I’m just saying, it’s okay. And if you want a hand…” Claude trails off meaningfully, and even with his eyes averted Lorenz can hardly avoid the direction of his gaze: straight to the slight bulge persisting beneath his clothes.

He should say _no, thank you,_ and flee before he ruins the night any further. But Claude’s expression is all sincerity, overlaid by the sheen of arousal: flushed cheeks, eyes gone heavy-lidded, lips parted slightly and plush from kisses. Lorenz feels himself nodding, the ache of desire taking control of his faculties. His common sense, for so long a bastion against temptation, slinks into a dusty corner and goes to sleep.

“I… yes,” he breathes, knowing Claude will accept no less than full verbal confirmation. “Please.”

Claude grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He has heard some sort of general courtesy, that it is considered appropriate to avoid kissing in such situations. But Claude has no such compunctions and Lorenz has no desire to dissuade him—his lips are _delicious_. Lips, and tongue, and teeth. Claude nibbles at his bottom lip and presses him against the wall, and Lorenz’s arousal surges back full force.

Claude must feel it, because he makes an approving sound in his throat and drags his hands down between them to wrestle open Lorenz’s belt. He’s a little embarrassed at how readily his cock returned to full hardness, but that fleeting feeling melts away as Claude gets a hand on him over his underwear, squeezing and feeling out the girth of him through the fabric. Lorenz whimpers and is rewarded by the slow slide of Claude’s tongue in his mouth, the flick of a thumb over the head.

With brisk, competent motions, Claude opens his fly the rest of the way and peels the waistband of his boxer briefs down, down, exposing the heft of his cock laying hot against his hip. His head his tucked against Lorenz’s collar to better appreciate the view, but Lorenz can still hear the low whistle of admiration as Claude runs his thumb along the underside to the knot of his frenulum.

“You’re packing some serious heat,” he says, delighted. “How did I not know this about you?”

Lorenz covers his face with one hand and tangles the other in Claude’s hair, keeping him still as he squirms and laughs and takes Lorenz fully in hand. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not, I swear I’m not!” Breathless, Claude accepts his position with grace and buries his mouth at the juncture of Lorenz’s neck as he jerks him off in slow, tantalizing pulls. Lorenz’s fingers tighten in his hair and he whimpers, hips twitching forward and back. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck my hand. Does that feel good?”

Lorenz moans and nods, hand plastered to his mouth to keep from making too much noise. Claude kisses up under his jaw, his wrist, the backs of his knuckles. An acceptable compromise. Lorenz drops his hand and pulls him in by the collar to kiss him full on the mouth, deep and wet and hungry. He is trembling in Claude’s grasp, a leaf beholden to the whimsical wind; he is _desperate_, aching, shoving gracelessly into Claude’s hand.

The glide is imperfect, eased only with precum and sweat, but he doesn’t need much more than this. Months of pent-up wanting coil tighter and tighter in his belly and then release, suddenly and without fanfare, and Lorenz curls forward in a desperate curve, face shoved into Claude’s neck as he comes, streaking Claude’s wrist and the sleeve of his kaftan in white.

“There we go,” Claude whispers, kissing his hair, his forehead, whatever he can reach. He tugs a few more droplets from Lorenz’s cock before releasing him and taking hold of his chin with clean fingers, steering their mouths together. Lorenz can hardly muster up the muscle control to kiss him back, but Claude seems unbothered. “Beautiful.”

“I’m sorry I—” He stumbles and stops, unsure what he’s apologizing for. Surely it’s better to have come off so quickly, to prevent them dragging this out? This inadvisable, indiscreet…

“You’re thinking too hard,” Claude says against his cheek. His lips are wet, and they leave a faint trail behind as he presses warm, firm kisses along his jaw to the exposed line of his throat. “It’s okay to let yourself enjoy it, Lorenz.”

“I made a mess of you,” he mumbles instead, once he can talk properly. He fishes out his handkerchief and wipes his own spend off Claude’s hand and sleeve as best he can, flushed hot and still deeply, inexplicably hungry.

_I’m hard, too. _

“That’s all right, I don’t… mind…” He looks down, wide-eyed, as Lorenz drops to his knees on the plush carpet. “Lorenz, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His determination wavers briefly, slowing the working of his hands on Claude’s trousers. There is no catch or zipper, just a simple drawstring, and his fingers hesitate to pull the knot free as he looks up. “If… I mean, if you…”

“Yes. Fuck, Lorenz, the way you look right now.” He captures Lorenz’s jaw in his hand, then slides it around to cup the back of his head, pressing his face to his crotch. Lorenz moans, open-mouthed, breathing him in. “_Goddess._”

Lorenz wholeheartedly agrees. The knot slips free at last and the trousers sag loosely around Claude’s hips, helped along to mid thigh by Lorenz’s impatient hands. The slightest whisper of common sense surface to remind him _you’ve never done this before, what on earth do you think you’re doing,_ but he slams the lid on it and lets his tongue guide him. He can smell the heat and musk between Claude’s legs, and when he licks him through his briefs, the fabric is already wet.

“Lorenz—fucking _void_, sweetheart,” Claude gasps, his fingers tangling hard in his long hair. He rocks his hips gently against Lorenz’s face, and Lorenz moans, hot and prickly all over. Claude’s eagerness is like an aphrodisiac all its own, spurring him on; he lets his mouth fall slack and rubs his lips along the gusset, exhaling against him, feeling the bump of Claude’s erection through the fabric.

“_Goddess_.” Claude’s voice sounds like nothing he’s ever heard, tight and strangled in his throat. “You have no idea how fucking sexy you look right now.”

Heat flames through Lorenz and he moans again, shoves the vibration of it right up against Claude’s mons. The smell and subtle taste of him is not enough. He smears an uncoordinated kiss to the slight softness at Claude’s belly and curls his fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“Can I,” he pants, nose against Claude’s navel.

“_Please_.” Plaintive, desperate, Claude rubs a hand over himself, dragging the fabric taut until there’s practically nothing left to the imagination. Lorenz’s mouth waters and he _yanks_.

In his eagerness, Lorenz leaves faint pink trails along Claude’s hips in the wake of his fingernails as he peels his briefs down. He watches raptly as the heather-grey cotton is shoved away, pulled halfway down his thighs to reveal dark curls, darker than the hair on his head, trimmed just enough to expose dark rosy-brown inner lips and the fat swell of his clit. Giddy, breathless, held in place by the steadfast grip of Claude’s hand, Lorenz wonders why it’s taken him so long to get here.

He’s not one hundred percent sure what to do, but he’s too punch-drunk to be nervous, the post-orgasm high carrying him through as he licks between Claude’s folds. He’s wetter and slicker than Lorenz was prepared for, clean and briny on his tongue. It’s like nothing he’s ever tasted, and yet it only takes an instant to become addicted.

Moving more boldly now, he licks higher in broad, flat strokes, pressing hard against the nub of Claude’s erection. Claude jerks and moans and holds him closer, so Lorenz follows that thread, wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“Fuck!” Claude shouts. He bursts into giggles a moment later, groaning and grinding against Lorenz’s face in the same moment. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll try to be quiet I just… _ahh_, flames, your mouth…”

Lorenz feels overcome with light and warmth at the praise, like a hot glowing coal has nestled beneath his sternum. Determined to earn more of it, he redoubles his efforts. Claude’s thighs tremble and he grips them as if to lend him some stability, letting his lips and tongue do the heavy lifting. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but Claude doesn’t seem to mind—he buries his cries behind one hand, the other still guiding Lorenz by the hair at his nape. Until suddenly he tenses, his grip tightening, and he holds Lorenz perfectly still, grinding against the flat of his tongue until he freezes and yells into the crook of his arm, every muscle atremble beneath Lorenz’s hands.

The flame inside him bursts like a soap bubble as Claude shakes to pieces. It dissipates through his body like sparks on the wind, like worker bees alighting upon their comb, molten and lazy. _I did this_, he thinks, listening to Claude’s harsh breathing, feeling the brush of coarse hair against his cheek. _I undid him, and no one else. _

Slowly, Claude comes back to himself. A little unsure, still breathless with the enormity of what’s transpired, Lorenz presses gentle, close-mouthed kisses against his clit until Claude eases him back, a thumb to the corner of his mouth. The whole lower half of his face is wet and surely red as a cherry, but Claude is looking down at him like he’s Sothis reborn, and Lorenz thinks that he’s never cared less about his appearance in his life.

“There,” Claude murmurs hoarsely. “Returned the favor, didn’t I.” He wipes his own slick off Lorenz’s chin with the cuff of his sleeve, so tenderly Lorenz has to close his eyes to gain a little distance. “Come on, let’s get to bed before I fall down.”

His knees protest as Lorenz pushes himself to standing, as frail and vulnerable as a tower made of toothpicks. But Claude is just as badly off, so he loops his arm around Claude’s back and together they manage to hobble to the bedroom, a strange and erotic sort of three-legged race. For a moment they stand there, swaying, supporting each other. Then Claude takes Lorenz’s face in his hands and kisses him, soft and with a lot of tongue. _Kissing the taste of himself off my lips_, Lorenz realizes, and nearly buckles to the ground after all.

They part with a wet sound that rings in the air like clocktower’s chime. For a moment Lorenz just stares at him, his shiny mouth, his jewel-like eyes with the lashes still clumped and teary. Another kiss, shallower; then Claude pulls himself away and makes for the bathroom. At loose ends, still feeling like he’s been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, Lorenz shucks off his clothes and falls into bed, trying not to listen to the sounds of Claude relieving himself and washing up.

Thought has started to reenter his brain by the time Claude emerges, trickling in slowly like water from a leaky faucet. Not much, but enough to feel a wave of terror as Claude slides into the bed beside him, naked and loose-limbed. Lorenz doesn’t know what to do. Does he face him? Do they talk about this? Or do they continue on as though nothing has happened, as though Lorenz’s entire world hasn’t been shifted to lay heavily on its side, raw and exposed like new skin beneath a bandage that’s just been brutally ripped off?

“I can hear you thinking,” Claude murmurs. He tugs the covers up over their waists and lays a hand flat to Lorenz’s ribs, hot as a brand in the dark room. Lorenz breathes deep and tries to calm his racing heart. “It’s fine. It doesn’t have to be… anything more than what it is.” He huffs a little laugh, and he’s close enough that Lorenz can feel the warmth of it against his shoulder. “Goddess knows we don’t have any other way to cutting loose once in a while, might as well take our fun where we can get it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lorenz echoes. He licks his lips—he can still taste Claude on them. But Claude’s arm is draped loosely over his stomach, and he’ll be damned if he gets out of bed to brush his teeth and break that gentle hold.

“I’m just saying…” Claude interrupts himself to yawn. Lorenz wonders how he can be so relaxed when he himself feels ready to fly apart into a thousand pieces. “Nothing has to change if you don’t want, y’know? But I’m selfish, I guess. And horny. And I’ll be honest, I miss… fucking.” He laughs at himself, and Lorenz laughs too, grateful for the darkness hiding what is surely a horrifying caricature of confusion on his face.

“I quite agree,” Lorenz says, and it sounds… mostly normal. He finds Claude’s hand on his belly and gives it a squeeze.

The conversation, such as it is, drains away as sleep creeps heavy over both of them. Despite the adrenaline rush, despite the confusion prickling at his throat, Lorenz is not unaffected by the late hour—it’s been a very long day. And an early morning tomorrow. He yawns, listening to Claude’s breaths as they slow and lengthen, and gradually the grindstone of his own capricious thoughts winds to a halt.

Part of him can’t believe they’ve done… any of it. Lorenz is more shocked at _himself_ than anything, at his own boldness in the face of years of trepidation and seclusion. He, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, has gone to his knees for another man and come out on the other side without being struck by lightning. He wonders at himself for daring to go so far, for daring to surprise even the unshakable Claude von Riegan, and feels a thrill of delight at his own audacity.

And yet Claude himself seems so… unmoved. Lorenz realizes, with a small curdle in his stomach, that this is likely nothing out of the ordinary for him. _Poor Claude, forced to do away with his casual flings to devote himself entirely in word—if not in deed—to me._ This is probably for the best, then, he decides. Claude can take the edge off without courting suspicion; Lorenz is happy to oblige him, and perhaps broaden his sexual horizons without risk of mockery or censure.

_Nothing has to change. _

Lorenz shuts his eyes against the dark and wonders why he isn’t more relieved.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude wrestles with his feelings as the summit comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your patience with this update! i took a few weeks off the breakneck pace of nanowrimo and now i'm ready to get back into it. i will probably update every other week so i don't tire myself out again, but i'll try to keep em coming regularly. as always thank you for your support, it means the world!! and thank you to ziek for the beta

Claude is dreaming. He knows it abstractly, the way he knows the milk-tea color of the sea floor, or the taste of marzipan. He feels it in the shape of Lorenz underneath him, inside him, all around him—endless pale skin, wafts of lavender as his long hair unspools against his cheek. Claude cries out in the dream, muffled by the deep water of his own subconscious, and is soothed in turn, coddled against the smooth mother-of-pearl exterior of his lover. Hardened and tough, but beautiful. The rough edges worn smooth by sand and sea. If he waits long enough, he wonders if he’ll uncover what lies beneath.

_Claude… _

He is split asunder. Consumed. Cracked open like a shell to expose the soft flesh inside. His fingers clutch at Lorenz but they slip, like his skin is coated with soap or oil—his useless fumblings leave him weightless, the pit of his stomach curdling like an overripe fruit as he feels the ground give out beneath him. And he falls. And falls.

_Lorenz!_

Claude’s eyes snap open. He’s in bed, overwarm and sweating even with the covers rumpled down around his waist. His heart gallops in his chest, and he’s so turned on he can feel the beat of his heart pulsing between his legs. He presses his thighs together and bites his lip at the stab of heat that guts him in return.

_Last night._ The spy, the ruse, the woods. Lorenz’s mouth on him, eager, _starving_—the feel of his cock in Claude’s hand, longer and weightier than he imagined. And _oh_, how he imagined. Claude gulps and rolls onto his back, looking to the other side of the bed.

It’s empty, though the clock on the bedside stand only reads 0600 hours. Claude rubs his face with his hands and sprawls out a little, wondering where Lorenz has gone. Whether he even stayed long enough to sleep beside him, or if he simply laid awake until Claude dropped off before sneaking off to sleep on the couch.

_You horny bastard, you moved too fast for him and scared him off. _

Claude groans audibly and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He has to fix this. He has to make it right.

The bathroom door slides open suddenly, flashing a strobe of light that winks out as Lorenz hits the switch just a second too late. Claude squints against the spots dappling his vision and tries to decipher the shape of him in the dimness. He’s hardly more than a slip of shadow, at first, but he comes toward the bed and slowly Claude puts together the pieces of him: freshly showered, hair wet and pulled to lie along his shoulder, droplets dappling the silk robe wound tight around his narrow waist. Lorenz pulls up short to find himself being stared at, but meets his gaze evenly, brow quirked in confusion.

“Everything all right?”

“Ev—yeah, sure, it’s great.” Claude ruffles his own hair, an anxious tic, and hopes belatedly that he doesn’t look like too much of a slob.

“You seem alarmed,” Lorenz says carefully. He’s still hovering a few feet away from the bed, but he comes a little closer with a wrinkle of concern between his brows, feet completely silent on the thick shag. “You’re not ill?”

“I’m… no, I’m not ill,” Claude says, even as he leans into the gentle touch against his forehead. Lorenz’s hand is cool and soft on his skin, and he shuts his eyes, breathing in the smell of cold cream and roses. “I guess I was just afraid that I’d, uh. Scared you off.”

Lorenz snorts delicately and removes his hand. Claude bites back a pitiful sound of disappointment. “You act as though you’ve done something you must apologize for. If I recall, we both had a hand in… what transpired.”

Such a delicate way of putting it. How very _Lorenz_. Claude chuffs a quiet laugh and lets his shoulders slump as he watches Lorenz move about the room, selecting an outfit for the day. He keeps his back turned to Claude the whole while, as if he’s afraid to face him, and his motions are brusque and businesslike. Claude can’t get a read on him. _If only he would turn around. _

“Speaking of which, why are you up so early?” Claude asks. He rolls onto his back and turns his eyes to the ceiling to avoid the temptation of watching Lorenz disrobe. “Breakfast isn’t served for another hour and a half.”

“I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Lorenz explains, voice disrupted by the shift and slough of clothing over bare skin. “And Shamir is coming by at seven to discuss developments on her end, so I decided I may as well get up.” There’s a pause. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you privacy,” Claude says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He yawns hugely and grimaces at the taste of his own breath. “Are you decent?”

“Hff. You didn’t seem overly concerned with _decency_ last night.”

Determined to bring it up. All right then. Claude had done his level best to give him an out, if he wanted it, but clearly Lorenz has decided to face the music. He rolls his head to the side and watches Lorenz button his shirt from the hem up, slowly sewing shut the plackets over his smooth, hairless chest. He _thinks_ it’s hairless, anyway—shame he hadn’t gotten much of a look last night.

His eyes travel north to find Lorenz meeting his gaze unflinching. Despite being fully dressed, more or less—the waistcoat and suit jacket are still hanging in the closet, waiting their turn—there’s something about him that feels soft and vulnerable, bare-skinned. “What?”

“Does that bother you?” Claude asks, feeling bold. “Our lack of decency.”

“It does not _bother_ me, no.”

“But you regret it,” Claude guesses. A blind stab in the dark, desperate to find the weak point that keeps Lorenz _over there_ on the other side of the room, instead of in his bed, in his arms. There’s a sour taste on the back of his tongue that isn’t entirely from sleep. An old bitterness he’s forgotten how to swallow.

Lorenz’s placid expression grows taut. “You certainly enjoy putting words in my mouth, don’t you.”

“Among other things,” Claude fires back before his common sense can rein him in. He winces. “Sorry, that was a bit crude.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes. “So you’ll apologize for offending my delicate sensibilities, but not for making assumptions?”

“C’mon, Lorenz. Help me out here.”

“Help you _what_? You won’t catch fish without bait. Tell me plainly what’s got your knickers in a twist.” His eyes drop to the sheet rumpled loosely in Claude’s lap. “Or lack thereof.”

_Not fair_, Claude thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. It’s not Lorenz’s fault he neglected to put underwear on before bed. He wonders suddenly where their clothes are. Still in the main room, where anyone could trip over them? Where _Hilda_ could find them?

_You have to remember that he isn’t really yours. _

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” Claude says firmly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really go about it in the best way. Or any of it, actually.”

“As previously stated, we are neither of us innocents,” Lorenz says, softer but still too clipped for Claude’s liking. “You said last night that this was a suitable way to relieve tension while we’re cooped up in this… arrangement. I agreed. It makes perfect sense.” He spreads his hands in query. “What is the missing piece, here?”

Claude chews on the question for a moment, feeling pinned in place by his lack of dress. It’s not as if Lorenz hasn’t seen him naked—he’s seen him a great deal _more_ than naked, now, for better or worse—but parading about in his buckskin while they’re trying to have a serious conversation feels… indelicate. “I just worry that you’re… putting it on,” he says at last, squirming beneath the lavender scrutiny of Lorenz’s gaze. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. It’s no fun if half the party is just participating out of obligation.”

Several emotions flash over Lorenz’s face in fast-forward—surprise, offense, uncertainty—and settle somewhere in the center of all three. “Claude. You are objectively attractive; incredibly so. We may not be compatible romantically, but let us not pretend there isn’t an element of physical chemistry at play here.”

Claude wrinkles his nose. “So… you _do_ want to fuck me.”

Lorenz sighs. “Yes, von Riegan. Insofar as it is something we both desire, and for the duration of our little play-pretend, I want to fuck you.” A flush tinges his cheeks at last, and he clears his throat. “Not right this _second_, obviously—”

“Why not?” Claude croons, just to see the blush spread. And spread it does, pinking his pale face prettily, until Lorenz turns his head and lets his hair disguise a stifled smile. “We have time.”

“We have half an hour. That’s cutting it rather close, I think.” Despite his assertion, the stiff set of Lorenz’s shoulders goes soft and pliant, and when Claude slips out of bed—bare ass and all—he doesn’t retreat from his prowling advance. “Claude…”

“Taking it back so soon?” Claude purrs. “You _said—_”

“I know what I said.” Lorenz yelps, betraying his stern tone of voice, as Claude slips his arms around his waist from behind. Claude bites his grin into the whetted blade of his shoulder, tongue to cloth, and receives a light swat on the arm for his trouble. “_Claude_, behave. I am already _dressed_.”

“Only halfway. You could _un_dress quite easily.” He drops a quick smooch of apology at the crux of Lorenz’s spine and draws his fingertips teasingly along his belt buckle. “I could help.”

“Insatiable,” Lorenz mutters, or something like it. But when he turns in the circle of Claude’s arms, his face is still rampant with color, and his eyes are dark and wanting. “Very well. Get on the bed, then.”

Claude’s stomach drops. “Sorry?”

Lorenz’s breath hitches a little, like he’s nervous. “Unless you’ve changed your mind—”

“No, no, I just. Was caught off guard.” Scrambling to recover the moment, Claude takes Lorenz’s hand from his waist and kisses his knuckles. “Sorry, please continue. You were saying?”

Lorenz flushes. “I was _trying_ to… boss you around, a little.”

“Yeah? I liked it.” Claude lets his tongue flirt with the pad of his thumb and watches, pleased, as Lorenz seems to regather a little of his courage around him in real time.

“Get on the bed, then,” he says again, huskily. “If you muss me above the waist, there will be hell to pay. Understand?”

“Yes _sir_.”

Claude’s thighs hit the bed and he goes down like a felled tree, already feeling the throb of interest in his groin. He holds his legs together at first, unsure, but Lorenz rolls up his sleeves and drops trou and then he’s _right there_, straddling one of Claude’s legs, his own bare thigh pressed right up where Claude wants it most.

“Flames,” Claude whispers, but it’s muffled by the firm, demanding kiss Lorenz presses to his lips. Soft hair caresses his cheek, just like in the dream. Lorenz consumes his senses: the weight of him, looming, insistent, the taste and smell of him. He’d smelled of cedar wood last night from being roughed up against the tree, and tasted like nothing at all once Claude was done kissing the wine from his lips. Today he is clean and fresh, a blank slate, but the grip of his hand in Claude’s hair is intoxicatingly familiar.

“Everything all right?” Lorenz murmurs. He holds onto Claude’s thigh with his right hand, holding him open. Beneath his boxer briefs he’s half-hard and plump, but he makes no attempt to seek stimulation, just offers his own leg for Claude to grind against.

“Amazing,” Claude gasps. He has next to no leverage like this, just enough to rub off against that pale thigh. “Fuck, Lorenz, please—”

“If you’re so desperate,” Lorenz murmurs, “you can get yourself off just like this. Can’t you, sweetheart?”

Oh _fuck_, that’s not fair. “Your fingers—please,” Claude bites out. Lorenz just laughs at him, and he shudders, overwhelmed. Where is the prudish boy Claude knew in college? Where is the man who blushed and stammered and shied away last night, when they’d been staging their distraction in the trees? _Who are you, and what have you done with the real Lorenz? _

A shocking thought is taking root in his guts, even as Lorenz obliges him, dipping his thumb down to rub added stimulation against his cock—the thought that maybe he doesn’t know Lorenz as well as he thought he did.

Orgasm comes upon him in the middle of a kiss, their tongues curling together as Claude rides his fingers and thigh to completion. His skull presses back against the sheets as the hot rush of it overtakes him, a wildfire rooting itself in his pelvis. He shouts—he can’t help himself—and as he gasps for breath and comes back to earth, tingling all the way down to the ends of his toes, he realizes he’s made rather a mess after all.

“Tsk, tsk.” Lorenz sits back on his knees, plucking at his soaked briefs. The whole left side is drenched, and little rivulets run down his thigh to the bedspread.

“S-sorry,” Claude gulps. He shudders and lays still, the muscles in his legs slowly unclenching. There’s still an ache in his core, a little tickle under the skin that tells him he could go again—go for thirds, even fourths, on Lorenz’s long fingers. But Lorenz is withdrawing, ignoring his own erection as he fetches a towel and changes into clean underwear. He returns and pats Claude dry, and it takes a loud throat-clearing and a meaningful _stare_ before he catches on.

“Ah. No, that’s all right, there’s not enough time.” He drapes the damp towel over Claude’s nethers and cocks an eyebrow at him. “I suppose you’ll just have to make it up to me.”

“Hey.” Claude sits up, wrangling his rubbery bones into submission, and snags Lorenz by the belt loop. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For that stellar fucking orgasm, of course.” He reaches up and guides him, great big stork that he is, down by the nape of his neck until he’s close enough to kiss. Claude’s morning breath has long since been kissed away, and Lorenz’s mouth is soft and welcoming, thawed beneath Claude’s patient ministrations like ice beneath spring sunshine.

“Mm.” Lorenz is heavy-lidded when he pulls away, touching a fingertip to his lower lip like he’s trying to preserve the sensation. “In that case, you’re welcome.”

Claude slides out of bed for good this time and stretches his arms over his head with a low, satisfied groan. He can practically _feel_ Lorenz’s eyes on him like a physical weight. Soaking him up. Admiring him. _Good_. _Let him see what he could have, if he wanted it. _“I’m going to hop in the shower. Don’t let Shamir start without me.”

Lorenz hums a vague agreement-noise, and Claude heads to the bathroom to get his head on straight.

><

“Kevin Dawson.” The dossier hits the coffee table with a light _smack_, and a few sheets of paper slide free, revealing cramped text and scribbled notes in Shamir’s messy hand. “Private Investigator working out of Ordelia territory. Used to be a detective with the Leicester Police, but retired early—I did a little digging with Lysithea’s help, and it looks like he was _encouraged_ to leave.”

“Encouraged,” Claude echoes, watching as Lorenz flips open the dossier and begins to read it over. “How?”

“Money. A very hefty severance pay, even by federal standards.” Shamir folds her arms over her chest but otherwise stands perfectly still, poised as if awaiting judgement. Or waiting to deliver it. “Whatever he did, or didn’t do, it’s locked behind a lot of encryptions in the LPD databases. I’m guessing he pulled some sort of blackmailing scheme over on his superior officers. Got out with his reputation intact, and theirs. He’s good at what he does—good enough to charge a pretty penny.”

“Where is he now?” Lorenz asks. His voice is muted, like the rest of him, whatever emotions he’s feeling kept under lock and key. He’s gotten better at that lately.

“Not under arrest, unfortunately, but we squeezed all the information we could get out of him. He’s talented, but he’s just a rat. Willing to cut ties and break contracts when… properly motivated.” Shamir’s stone-cold facade cracks a little as she regards her own employer. “We have enough information to bring your father to court, however.”

Lorenz goes still apart from his eyes, which flicker in Claude’s direction before pulling center again. “On what charges?”

“Invasion of privacy; breaking and entering; attempted vehicular manslaughter…”

The list threatens to go on, but Lorenz makes a pained sound in his throat and stands abruptly, leaving the dossier open on the table. “He wouldn’t—”

“Not himself, no. But he gave the order.” Shamir’s not the sort to express pity; but her eyes are as kind as Claude’s ever seen them as she says, quietly, “I can’t tell you whether he really meant to kill Claude, but the events of that night were no accident.”

“Will you be taking this evidence to court?” Claude inquires when Lorenz makes no immediate reply.

“No. Our contract,” and she nods at Lorenz, “stipulates that any information that could pose a threat to the mark is delivered to him personally. No outside interference without his consent. _You_ are included in that inner circle, of course. And Ms. Ordelia.”

“Thank you, Shamir. If we could have a few minutes.”

“Take your time.”

Shamir gives Lorenz one more searching look and excuses herself to the hallway. As soon as the door shuts behind her, Lorenz crumples to the couch like a sack of potatoes, head in his hands. Claude circumnavigates the coffee table and joins him, catching him up in his arms.

“None of this is your fault,” he says firmly before Lorenz can even speak. “Listen to me. You are not to blame.”

“What a fucking disaster.” Lorenz’s voice is muffled in the lapel of Claude’s suit jacket, but he can still hear the way it frays and fractures at the edges, threatening to splinter. “If I had had any clue—the slightest _inkling_ of what lengths he would go to, to preserve—”

His voice breaks, then, and Claude braces himself for the storm. But he doesn’t cry. Just sits there, shivering like a leaf in a gale, taking slow, steady breaths until he’s calm again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lorenz admits. He withdraws from Claude’s embrace and tidies his hair, his tie. He is very pale, even more so than usual, and his eyes are red-rimmed but dry as he regards the open dossier like one might regard a viper. “Even with the evidence provided, my father is difficult to pin down. He will find a way to take this situation and turn it to his advantage.”

“And what, then?” Claude asks, frustration finally boiling over. “Do we just let him continue on? Find another piece of shit to spy on us and report back how many condoms we go through in a week?”

Lorenz flinches like he’s been struck, but he doesn’t give Claude enough time to apologize. “I will deal with it. After the conference, while you visit your parents, I will—”

“No. You… Lorenz, I’m sorry.” Claude sighs and reaches for his hand; breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he accepts. “Your father can wait a week. You deserve to take a break from all of that, and with this Dawson bloke out of the picture, we can relax. At least for a little while.”

Lorenz sighs, but shoots him a wry look. “If you think I’m going to be able to _relax_ in front of your parents, Claude, you are very much mistaken.”

“Hey, they’re very nice people. I made them promise not to scare you off.” There’s no one else in the room, but Claude lifts Lorenz’s hand to his lips anyway, kissing the knuckles softly. Lorenz blushes and looks away. “Did I mention they live in a gorgeous mansion on the coast? With a private beach, and a sailboat, and small village nearby with lots of little shops and restaurants?”

“Claude…”

“What? Okay, so it’s a bit touristy, but it’s not peak season yet so we’ll fly under the radar. Promise.”

Lorenz looks again to the dossier. “And what about…”

“Let your father stew. He can sit and fret and wonder if he’s been discovered, and when we get back we’ll fucking take him down. _Together_. All right?”

“All right.” Reluctantly, a smile touches Lorenz’s lips. “Thank you. For your support.”

“Of course.” Claude smiles back, trying to ignore the way it pulls painfully at the corners of his mouth as he says, lighthearted, “What sort of boyfriend would I be otherwise?”

><

Claude has never been more grateful to be an obsessive planner. He walks into his first panel, which he’s helping to present, with nothing but the notes on his phone and the muscle memory of questions asked and answered, and by the end of it the blocks in his brain have been arranged into something resembling order. He’s still on edge, after the morning he’s had—to say nothing of the night before—but it’s tamped down now, enshrined away from the center of his focus.

The rest of the day is fairly smooth sailing. He attends a few talks before lunch with Lorenz, then breaks afterward to go over the points of a speech he has to give later in the evening. By the time dinner rolls around, he’s hyped up on coffee and conversation, and the events of the last twelve hours are nothing but a low fog on the horizon of his subconscious.

But, as any sea fog is wont to do, tendrils of it start to creep around his ankles, weighing him down even as he makes friendly smalltalk with the princess of Brigid. Petra had done an exchange semester at Garreg Mach during his junior year. They’d shared a class or two but hadn’t been particularly close—still, she is friendly and vivacious and easy to talk to, and he feels bad when the disquiet in the pit of his stomach grows too much and he has to excuse himself.

He hasn’t seen Lorenz all evening; not since dinner. The evening’s programming was fairly light, all of it voluntary, and the attendees have thinned to a cozy twenty or thirty in the hotel bar as Claude makes his way toward the residential floors, but he doesn’t see even the slightest whiff of purple. _In bed, maybe_. Claude checks his watch. It’s coming up on nine thirty, and jet lag still plucks at him like a coy flirtation lined with lead, throbbing at the back of his skull if he thinks about it too directly. Lorenz’s delicate constitution has probably already gotten the best of him.

Delicate indeed. Claude rocks on his heels a little as he waits for the elevator, warm at the memory of this morning. Lorenz always has such an aloof air about him, a sort of untouchable quality that he projected like a shield to fend off potential evil-doers. The strangest, quibbliest knight Claude has ever known. He always seemed so above things like sex—which, in hindsight, is ridiculous. Claude has made a terrible habit of underestimating him, or perhaps just _presuming_ him. No ill has come of it, yet, at least nothing that couldn’t be swiftly rectified, but if he’s not careful he’s sure to lose Lorenz’s good opinion once and for all. And he just can’t have that.

The elevator doors slide open and he gets on to an empty carriage, moving on autopilot as he recalls the way Lorenz pinned him down, kissing him, bossing him around. It was hot, no question—arousal strikes like hot iron between his legs at the memory alone. But it wasn’t what Claude had been expecting.

There had been flashes of it, last night. Glimpses into a side of Lorenz that Claude has never seen before: soft, uncertain, feeling his way forward like a spelunker without a flashlight. He’s always so put together, so _sure _of himself, and some of it is genuine, an inherent haughtiness bred into the fibres of his being that even growing up and away from his father can’t completely eradicate. But overlaying that is a hard shellac, a barrier of bespoke suits and expensive cologne and a cool, clever stare that’s almost impossible to shatter.

He wonders what it would take to break down that barrier. To have Lorenz raw and wrung-out and sweetly shy beneath him, entirely at his mercy.

Such vulnerability should probably be saved for someone Lorenz actually _loves_, someone he trusts with his whole heart and soul, not just his body. But Claude, selfishly, wants it for himself. Not just the confident sexy persona, but the man who talked too much because he was nervous about a kiss; the man who went to his knees so eagerly but looked up at Claude with a tremor in his hands to ask permission.

He’s treading dangerously close to something. A massive sinkhole at the edges of his vision, always turning his head away to avoid looking directly at it. Does Lorenz feel it, too? _Incompatible_, Lorenz had said, rattling it off like it was an incontrovertible truth. It stings a little bit, but it’s a good reminder. A reminder that he cannot trust the fabricated feelings of _belonging_ the last few months have conjured. Their little game of play-pretend has awoken something in him that, until now, he’d kept so deeply buried he’d almost forgotten it existed. And now it’s all coming up for air, all at once, without the decency to even ask him for permission.

Lost in thought, he steps off the elevator and nearly runs into someone—two someones, in fact. Hilda stands with her back to the elevator bank, deep in conversation with a woman who would surely top her height if it weren’t for the subtle hunch of her shoulders, the bow of her head toward Hilda’s vivacious chatter. She’s dressed in an elegant navy twinset and kitten heels, soft blue hair pulled back into a knot that’s slowly unraveling into strands around her face. Claude grins and steps out into the hallway, draping an arm over Hilda’s shoulders.

“Hello, ladies. Waiting for a lift?”

“Waiting for _you_,” Hilda shoots back without missing a beat. She accepts the kiss he busses to her cheek before turning to offer her companion the same.

“Hullo, Mari. Long time no see. You’re looking ravishing as ever.”

“Can you stop flirting with my girlfriend?” Hilda sighs with a toss of her head.

“I don’t mind.” Marianne giggles and returns his embrace, almost stooping to match his height. When did she get so tall? “Your speech was very good tonight, Claude. It was nice to finally see you in action.”

“Oh, you were there? They kept the house lights pretty low—lower than I like, I prefer to see the people I’m talking at. But hey, I’m glad you liked it. And I’m glad to see you! Last I heard Hil wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t sure myself, to be honest. But I’m glad I came.” Her eyes slide sideways to beam sweetly at her girlfriend, who’s looking a bit pink in the face herself. Marianne is the only person Claude knows who can still fluster Hilda without lifting a finger. “Do you mind if I steal Hilda away for the evening, or do you need her?”

“I always need her,” Claude sighs dramatically, hand to his breast. The gesture reminds him of that fussy, put-upon way Lorenz used to carry himself in school, and he drops his arm swiftly. “But I suppose I can part with her for tonight.”

“Excellent! And now that you’re here, we can leave.” Hilda loops an arm through Marianne’s and tugs her toward the elevator. “Have a good night, Claude!”

“Hang on a minute—you said you were waiting for me.”

“Yes, waiting for you to get here and go babysit your man.” Hilda jerks her head meaningfully toward the door to their suite, just a few paces down the carpeted hallway. “Shamir left me in charge to go do some ninja spy shit, and now _I’m_ leaving _you_ in charge so I can go fuck my girlfriend.”

“_Hilda_.”

“What? It’s not like it’s a huge secret, baby, I haven’t seen you in _months_.” Hilda pouts, face upturned, and Marianne succumbs in a heartbeat, dropping a kiss to her lips. Claude feels an odd twinge beneath his breastbone and looks away.

“All right, all right. Go have fun, girls. I’ll take it from here.”

Thus released, Hilda flounces to the elevator, girlfriend in tow. Claude lingers in front of the door a moment or two after they’ve gone, collecting himself. Lets the frenetic late-night cheer drain away, leaving behind a smooth-surfaced calm, a steadiness that—he hopes—will keep him from doing or saying anything foolish in front of Lorenz.

When he unlocks the door and slips inside, he finds he needn’t have worried. Lorenz is fast asleep on the couch in the main room, shoes off and suit coat slung over the back of an armchair but otherwise fully dressed. His arm hangs off the couch, curled knuckles grazing the floor. Claude draws nearer, and sees what he was working on: their stalker’s dossier, spread out across the coffee table. There’s a half-full mug of cold tea resting at the edge, precarious, like he’s been pouring over details for hours.

Claude sighs and quietly reassembles the folder. He tries not to read it, but details leap out at him anyway, burning in his blood: details about Gloucester’s orders, how closely he tracked their movements. There’s a bill for a room at the hotel across the street from Lorenz’s apartment, just as he suspected, and his hands tremble with barely-checked rage.

This relationship was supposed to _protect _Lorenz, not expose him to even deeper scrutiny. The thought that Claude has contributed to the storm of fear and turmoil surrounding Lorenz’s coming out sickens him.

When the dossier has been tidied and the mug of tea returned to safety in the kitchenette, Claude returns to stand brief guard over Lorenz’s supine form. His neck is bent on the throw pillow at what looks like a horribly uncomfortable angle, but it stretches the line of his throat in a way that warms the pit of Claude’s stomach. His hair spills in a silken lavender sheet across the brocade, brow furrowed, lips softened in repose, curved like the arc of an unstrung bow. Claude reaches out, fingertips hovering over the unexpected softness of those lips. Then he feels the warmth of a slumbering exhale and he thinks better of it.

“Lorenz,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair back from his cheek. “You’ll be more comfortable in a bed, baby.”

Lorenz grunts and stirs, barely half awake. When he yawns in Claude’s face, his breath is sour from tea and sleep, but Claude doesn’t mind. He ducks down and presses a dry kiss to his temple as he slips his arms beneath that slender weight.

“Claude—what are you—”

“C’mon, sleepyhead.” Claude stands, glad that he can lift Lorenz if not with _ease_, then at least without worrying about dropping him. Leonie would be proud. “I’ve got you.”

Lorenz mumbles something incoherent into his neck and subsides, allowing himself to be borne into their room and deposited gently on the bed. He comes awake enough to divest himself of shirt and tie and trousers, then allows himself to be enfolded within the blankets, soft and long and malleable.

Claude changes for bed but stays awake for some time after, watching the play of violet lashes over pale cheeks before sleep finally takes him, too.

><

After the turmoil of the first day, the rest of the conference is a breeze. Claude attends panels during the day, sometimes with Lorenz, and occasionally participates in them, usually with Lorenz in the audience. There is a new awareness in him, now, a sixth sense that prickles when Lorenz is nearby. Lodged in his chest like a stone. They take dinner with their friends, rekindle old relationships and forge new ones, and pretend not to notice when other people remark how good they are together.

At night, when the barriers come down, there is a new, complex maze to be navigated. Lorenz is harder to read now—a laudable feat, given that Lorenz has always had a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve. Now, the fog of Claude’s own befuddled feelings clouds his judgement. In school he had been able to flirt with him and forget about it five minutes later, waving it off, bowing to the superior force of Lorenz’s presumed heterosexuality. Now he knows better. There is a barrier to his quick escape that hadn’t existed before, and he finds himself speaking more slowly, placing his feet with more care as they feel out the edges of their new reality.

They don’t fuck _every_ night. Even Claude, who has been quietly suppressing the ache of loneliness for years beyond counting, is not so insatiable. But the spark between them is undeniable. At first it’s nothing more than hands and hips, kissing as they grind and fumble against each other, caught up in the novelty. The fourth night they simply fall asleep without even kissing goodnight, too exhausted by the day’s extensive itinerary.

But the fifth night Claude finally, finally goes to his knees for Lorenz, taking his time sucking him off until Lorenz is red from head to toe and trembling, hoarse, completely undone. When Claude looks up at him, salt in his mouth and voice rough as he whispers encouragement, Lorenz looks more like a painting made flesh than a mortal person, illuminated from within by the glow of desire.

He tries to cover the warning knell in his chest with a series of bruising, biting kisses up the inside of Lorenz’s thighs, but it’s too late. He knows what Lorenz looks like naked, now. He knows what Lorenz sounds like when he cums. He knows what Lorenz tastes like after he’s been eating Claude out—one night, a bit tipsy from the evening’s revelry, Lorenz made it his mission to wring as many orgasms out of Claude with his mouth as he could—and frankly, Claude doesn’t know how he’s supposed to forget any of that and move on once this is over.

><

The conference ends at noon on a Monday. After the closing remarks, which Claude helps give in Almyran and Brigidese both, he pops down the mountain to pick up some booze that isn’t the overpriced garbage they sell in hotel gift shop. He walks, which is good for his legs and his lungs, and he’s flushed and tingling from the cool alpine air by the time he returns to the hotel room with a bottle of imported Adrestian champagne swinging from each hand.

Lorenz is there when he arrives, dressed down in lounge pants and a sweater, reading a book on the little balcony that overlooks the road down into down. He must have seen Claude walking back up. He slides his finger between the pages to save his place and looks up as Claude appears in the open sliding door, bottle against his hip and thumb to the cork.

“Have a drink with me?” Claude asks, grinning that Chesire smile that usually get him what he wants.

Lorenz’s eyes drag across the label, half-hidden beneath the sleeve of Claude’s leather jacket. “Adrestian Black. Good taste.” He glances at the page number and shuts the book without folding over the corner to mark it. Fastidious to a fault. “I’ll get the glasses.”

Lunch was light, tea sandwiches served as people were on their way out, so the champagne doesn’t take long to alight in Claude’s bones. Lorenz finds flutes in the kitchenette, and they work their way through the first bottle before agreeing what a crime it is that they’ve neither of them set foot in the extravagant jacuzzi bath that graces their ensuite bathroom.

It takes longer than expected to fill it, long enough to finish another half a bottle, this time splashed with orange juice to cut the bubbles that insist on rocketing up Claude’s nose every time he laughs. Claude is sitting on the edge of the tub, heady and bright, watching closely as Lorenz steps out of his clothes and into the water. It’s a pretty big tub, big enough for two, but it will be a tight fit—Lorenz’s legs are so absurdly long.

“Well?” Lorenz says over the hum of the jets as they work the water into a milky froth. He lifts one foot out of the water and prods Claude in the knee with it, where his jeans have been rolled up to keep them from getting wet. “Are you getting in, or are you a coward?”

“A _coward_?” Claude splutters. He knocks back the dregs of his mimosa and stands, pulling off his shirt in one hearty yank. The seams strain beneath the force but hold, and he drops it to the ground, toying with the fly of his jeans with his hips cocked just so. Lorenz flushes but doesn’t drop his gaze. “I was just waiting for you to make yourself comfortable first, babydoll.”

He has to step out of the tub to do it, but he wriggles free of the rest of his clothes and gets in while Lorenz sniffs each complimentary liquid soap bottle before settling on one. By the time he gets in, there are bubbles on the surface of the water and the room smells faintly of lavender and pine. His legs slide along Lorenz’s, toes prodding playfully. Lorenz gives him a dire look and grabs his foot. Claude is expecting to be tickled mercilessly, or perhaps dragged underwater, but Lorenz only settles his leg in his lap and digs his thumbs into the arch of his foot with surprising skill.

“Why Lorenz,” Claude teases, wriggling his toes in Lorenz’s grip, “I didn’t peg you for a foot man, but I admit I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“I am not averse to feet in general,” Lorenz says briskly, the pink of his cheeks belying his no-nonsense tone, “but neither am I particularly titillated by them, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Not _particularly titillated_.” Claude hums and rests his head back against the side of the tub. A slight groan escapes him as Lorenz digs his thumb into the arch mercilessly, and Lorenz smirks. “Neither am I, but damn if this doesn’t feel amazing. If you want me to return the favor just say the word.”

“Hmm.” Lorenz is smiling, hair sticking damply to his cheek with the humidity. “Perhaps later.”

Claude huffs and lets himself drift a little as the champagne works its way through his system. Lorenz lavishes his other foot with the same attention before releasing him—but Claude’s feet remain conveniently laid across his lap, Lorenz’s fingers curl loosely around one ankle. His pale skin is flushed from the warm water, and maybe something else. With a little seed of mischief unfurling in his brain, Claude decides he wants to know which.

“Are you hard right now?” he asks lazily, eyes half-lidded and indulgent.

Lorenz coughs and turns his head aside, grip tightening slightly on Claude’s ankle. Claude expects to be rebuffed, at least at first—feigning disapproval is Lorenz’s natural first line of defense against embarrassment. But Lorenz only says, low and warm, “Why don’t you find out?”

Claude’s jaw drops. “Really?”

Lorenz scoffs a bit, face still bowed—but there’s a smile tugging at one edge of his mouth that Claude wants very badly to kiss. “I offered, didn’t I?”

Like he’s moving in a dream, Claude shifts his weight, moving across the small space until he’s kneeling between Lorenz’s knees on the floor of the jacuzzi. His hands alight naturally on Lorenz’s thighs. When he glances up through his lashes, the flush on his face has deepened from rosepetal to cherry, and his lips are bitten red. Claude leans forward and smudges a warm kiss to one pectoral as his hands slide up, seeking…

“Hmmm. Definitely getting there.” Claude curls his fingers around Lorenz’s shaft, feeling it plump and lengthen in his hand. Above him, Lorenz wet his lower lip with his tongue and lets out a soft whine, eyes shut and brow wrinkled as though he’s already too close to bear looking. “Hey,” Claude coaxes, matched with a gentle stroke, the pad of his thumb to the frenulum. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Lorenz breathes. He lays his hands, warm from the water, against the cool slopes of Claude’s shoulders, shifting a little in his grip. “Please…”

“Oh, well.” Claude lifts up on his knees a little, enough to get his lips within kissing range. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Lorenz takes the bait, or the offer, and nudges their mouths together lazily until it becomes a proper kiss. His thumbs dig slightly into Claude’s collar bones, directing him—Claude is happy to follow his lead. Their kisses deepen; his hand twists up and down in a building rhythm, slick with soap, spurred on by the quiet little breaths Lorenz pants against his cheek.

“Do you want to be inside me?” Claude breathes, nose tucked into the fine, short-cropped hair just above his ear. Lorenz bites his lip and nods, face scrunched up and aflame. Claude hums and nuzzles his temple. “I don’t think I have any toys as big as you are… will you be gentle with me? Go nice and slow?”

Lorenz stiffens and cries out, and Claude can feel him pulsing under his hand as he spends beneath the water. Long fingers dig into his shoulders as he trembles—Claude will have bruises tomorrow, but that’s all right. He gentles Lorenz through his orgasm, kissing him and stroking him, and laughs delightedly when Lorenz suddenly surges up and wraps an arm around his waist, drawing them flush.

“You are a menace,” Lorenz growls. His free hand worms its way between them, bypassing his own softening prick to rub gently at Claude’s erection.

“Harder,” Claude says. Still Lorenz is too gentle, so he presses his own palm to the backs of his knuckles and directs him that way, rubbing those long, eager fingers against his dick until his spine stiffens up and he arches forward, teeth bared against Lorenz’s bony shoulder to keep from screaming.

“_Fuck_,” he slurs afterward, fingers tangling together tightly against his own thigh. He rubs his open mouth along the slope of Lorenz’s pretty thoat, along the pink indents in his shoulder. “Sorry…”

“Hff. You have _nothing_ to apologize for.”

Clever, clever Lorenz… his free hand cups Claude’s thigh, caressing the skin in slow circles. He looks languid, kiss-bitten, but his eyes are calculating, catching every flicker of Claude’s expression as he works two fingers inside of him, one at a time. Claude gnaws on his lower lip and tries to breathe.

“Good?”

“Yeah. Fuck.” Claude leans into it, buckling a little when Lorenz finds his sweet spot with unrelenting precision. “You’re really doing it, huh.”

“Hmm…?”

Claude licks a droplet of water from his neck and grazes his teeth there. “Opening me up.”

“Your faith in my stamina is flattering.” Lorenz twists his wrist, thumb sliding up between his folds, and Claude grits his teeth. “Maybe I just like watching you fall apart.”

“Could you?” Claude presses.

“Could I what?”

“Open me up.” He grazes his lips closer, along the ridge of Lorenz’s perfectly-plucked brow. “With your _cock_.”

Lorenz shivers and curls his fingers, making Claude jerk like a puppet on a string. “Maybe next time,” he says, and drives Claude to such an earthshaking orgasm that he can’t complain.

Afterward, when they’ve rinsed off in the shower and have begrudgingly started packing for their early morning flight, Claude looks up to find he’s being watched. Lorenz quickly drops his gaze once he realizes he’s been caught, eyes on the shirt he’s so lovingly folded into a perfect square, but Claude’s curiosity is piqued.

“All good?” he asks, tossing his toiletry bag into his open suitcase. The vibe he’d packed in a side pocket has gone unused all week. Maybe, if they have some time alone in the next few days…

“Yes, perfectly. Just thinking.”

“About… how handsome I am?” Claude suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

Lorenz shoots him a stern look, made soft by the last traces of champagne in his veins, and Claude’s stomach drops into his shoes. One look and Lorenz takes his breath away. _Not fair. _“I was thinking about your parents, actually. You said they haven’t been told the truth.”

“That’s right.” Claude’s head spins back around to businesslike so fast he nearly has to sit down. “I was considering breaking the news while we were there, but…” He trails off, glancing at the elegant shape of Lorenz’s hands as he rolls a tie into a perfect loop. His brain unhelpfully provides an image of Lorenz tying Claude’s wrists to the bedposts, and his cheeks flame hot. “Well, maybe it would get. Messy. With how things are, now.”

Lorenz tsks a soft agreement, tongue to palate, and flips his suitcase closed. “My thoughts exactly. I won’t try to dissuade you, if you change your mind—they’re _your_ parents, after all. But I admit the prospect of explaining the concept of _fuckbuddies_ to your mother and father is slightly horrifying.”

Claude barks out a laugh and skirts the end of the bed to tug him into a kiss. Not traditional “fuckbuddy” fare, but Lorenz has never complained about his forays into casual intimacy; even now he leans into it, mouth soft and welcoming, the taste of him familiar after a week of this new _normal_.

“I agree,” Claude says when they part, licking his lips. Lorenz’s eyes follow the movement, and Claude wonders how much persuasion it would take to get him naked again. “How’s this—if I _do_ change my mind, I’ll give you advance warning.”

“Fair enough,” Lorenz agrees, and returns to packing.

Claude, meanwhile, wanders out of the room to dispose of their empty champagne bottles and make sure the suite won’t be a complete nightmare for the cleaning crew. Standing in the kitchen, perfectly alone, he opens his phone and fires off a quick email.

> _Hey Mum, heads up—Lorenz doesn’t know that you and Dad know the truth about us, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. See you soon. Love, Claude._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me voice* oh claude we're really in it now


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz Meets the Parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZOINKS!!!! not to be a meme, but I AM sorry for the slow update; have 10k to make up for it <3 
> 
> content warnings for this chapter: PiV sex, unprotected sex (just assume they've had the sti talk already lol). claude is a trans man and i use terms like cock/cunt/folds/erection etc. to describe his bits.

Claude’s parents send a car to pick them up at the airport. Not a taxi, not a rental, but a _car_, long and black and sleek, with a driver in a suit that’s just two degrees shy of a uniform. Lorenz blinks and stands aside as the man loads their luggage easily into the trunk. Claude, a hand in his pocket and the other around his phone as he skims his email, doesn’t seem to take any notice.

_Not raised in the lap of luxury_. That was what he had said, time and again, whenever they argued about Lorenz’s particular tastes in college. _Who cares if it’s instant coffee, it gets the job done, _and _don’t waste your money on a cab, we won’t be late if we hoof it,_ and _twenty hair products is pointless and wasteful_.

_I don’t use twenty hair products, Claude, don’t be absurd._

_I’ve seen your toiletry caddy. No, scratch that, it’s not a caddy—it’s a **hamper.**_

Lorenz is the first to admit he’s accustomed to a certain level of… luxury. These days he tries to be less picky about insignificant details, but Claude, by comparison, has always prided himself on being “no one special,” even if he did have Riegan blood in his veins. Lorenz had always assumed that Judith Daphnel married below her station after removing herself from the public eye, had fled her fame and fortune to make her way in the world on her own merits. It was the favored theory among speculators, not that Lorenz ever partook in such lowly gossip. But as he slides into the leather seat with Claude right behind, he’s beginning to rethink his assumptions.

Unlike Raphael, their driver is quiet and noncommittal, conducting them smoothly away from the airport and away from the city proper. Lorenz is tired and dehydrated from travel, but the scenery rolling past the window keeps him alert. Claude’s parents live in the southern part of Almyra, a mere two hours from the capital. Here the land is steep and weathered, soft pale stone exposed beneath beautifully gnarled evergreens worn into dramatic shapes by the wind off the sea. They mostly drive through the hills, at first, winding higher and higher into the foothills of the mountains that border Leicester to the west. Then the car levels out and they’re on a ridge overlooking the ocean.

Lorenz holds his breath, nose all but pressed to the glass. The water is a deep crystalline blue, perfectly reflecting the sky overhead, greener where it laps close to the white rocky shore below. The cliff slowly crumbles into a softer incline, and so does the road, following it nearly down to the water’s edge. Then away again, deeper into the scrubland, until they turn off the main road and wind along a narrow but well-groomed track that ends at a high stone fence with a gate set into it.

“Claude,” Lorenz murmurs, watching keenly as the driver rolls down the window to present his credentials to an unobtrusive camera system.

“Mm?”

“I think there are a few small things you’ve been keeping from me.”

“From _you_? Don’t be silly.” Despite his bluster, Claude has the grace to look slightly abashed. “All right, maybe I haven’t been exactly… one hundred percent forthcoming about some things.”

“Such as your parent’s wealth?”

“It’s… a recent development,” Claude says staunchly. “Call it a, hm, unexpected promotion.”

Lorenz huffs. “That isn’t exactly assuaging my worries.”

“Worries? What worries do you have, my love?” He reaches across the empty seat between them and takes Lorenz’s hand, bringing it to his lips for a cheeky kiss. “They’re going to love you, I promise.”

“Of course they will,” Lorenz mutters. Jet-lagged as he is, he has no concerns on the socialization front. “That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

Claude looks like he wants to press him, but whether due to the presence of the driver or some other reason, he remains quiet as the car turns along the cedar-trimmed drive and approaches the main house. It’s not quite as grandiose as the gated entrance would suggest—Lorenz’s own childhood home at the Gloucester Estate is certainly bigger and more ostentatious by several orders of magnitude—but Lorenz is still suitably impressed. It’s a decent-sized contemporary lodge, of a modern construction but with little architectural touches that harken back to old-fashioned Almyran villas: a warm stucco exterior interspersed with tall glass windows and white limestone; archways that peer beyond the house to a lush garden overflowing with plants and trees that grow in every direction; and the view itself, beyond the house, perched as it is on the cliff overlooking an incredibly blue bay dotted with sails.

“Well,” Claude says with put-upon cheer, “here we are.”

He slips out first and turns to offer Lorenz a hand out. The air blooms warm and salt-tinged over his face, invigorating him. Despite his drab, rumpled suit and the headache pulsing behind his eyes, Lorenz can’t help feeling refreshed.

“My parents aren’t home at the moment,” Claude says as he leads the way to the house, hand still entwined with Lorenz’s. “So we can shower and relax a little in private before they get here.”

“A small mercy,” Lorenz murmurs. He follows Claude inside, taking in as much detail as he can. There is a certain level of hominess to the warm, polished wooden floors, the antiqued tin lanterns fashioned into rustic chandeliers—but everything is spotless and free of dust, well-maintained, and clearly, inescapably expensive. “What did you say your father did again?”

“He works in, ah, security. Private security.” Evasive, but direct. How like him. “I can give you the tour now or later—what’s your poison?”

“As curious as I am… I really am craving a shower,” Lorenz admits. “And perhaps some coffee?”

“Easily done.” Despite the lack of any witnesses—at least that Lorenz can see; after passing through the gate, and Claude’s brief description of his father’s employment, he can’t help wondering if there are cameras placed around the home that he cannot see—Claude leans in and busses a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll take you to our rooms.”

_Rooms?_ Lorenz thinks, though by now he’s not sure why he’s even surprised.

“It’s a beautiful house,” he says to cover his trepidation as Claude leads him past an elegant sitting area and a shiny, chrome-and-hardwood kitchen. Everywhere windows look out upon the stunning vista of the bay, or the opulent tangle of greenery that seems to occupy most of the yard space. “Does your mother keep the gardens?”

“Ah, no that would be my father’s pet project. He’s a bit of a botany nut. Here we go.” Claude opens a door at the end of a hall and stands aside. “This is us.”

Lorenz steps in slowly. Somehow their luggage has already been delivered; it stands humbly off to one side of the enormous bedroom, which boasts a king sized bed draped in white linens and delicate embroidered white gauze that spills from a carved wooden mount set into the ceiling. The soft white carpet breaks just enough for two shallow wooden steps to lead to a lower section of the room, with a writing-desk and a small sitting area that looks out over a private veranda. A large bathroom and walk-in closet await his attention, but Lorenz drifts past them both to the sliding glass doors, one of which is ajar. Warm air wafts in off the garden, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and bird-of-paradise, and he leans against the frame with jaw slightly agape.

“Beautiful, isn’t it.” Claude has drifted up behind him. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Lorenz feels the warm, square shape of his hand land sturdy at the base of his spine. “Every time I visit I forget why I leave… and then I remember again.” He laughs—not a bitter, unkind laugh, but the laugh of someone who has grown accustomed to his lot, even contented with it. “Hopefully with you here it’ll be as relaxing as I always wish it were.”

“Am I to be the buffer between you and your parents, then?” Lorenz asks. He tears himself away from the view to look down at Claude instead—and that, in its way, is its own kind of beauty. To avoid meeting that particular thought head-on, he smooths the crumpled sail of Claude’s collar and rests his hands upon his shoulders after, quirking an eyebrow.

“Ideally, yes,” Claude admits. “They’ve never minced words with me, but when company’s around they tend to be better behaved. But if they aren’t, fear not: I will rescue you.” He winks and draws away, seemingly reluctant. “C’mon, bathroom’s this way.” His eyes drop below Lorenz’s own, to somewhere in the area of his open collar. “If you still wanted that shower.”

The bath is predictably sumptuous, with the same elegant, rustic chic as the rest of the house: polished stone, gleaming metal, and soft cedar polished to a reddish-gold glow. Claude does not _ask_ to join him, not in so many words; and, finding himself shy about requesting it under his parents’ roof, Lorenz does not offer, and showers alone while Claude rustles about in the next room, unpacking and seeing to his own toilette.

When he emerges, wrapped in one of the fluffy green bathrobes provided by their hosts, Claude is nowhere to be found; but his luggage has been unpacked, clean clothes hung in the closet and the rest most likely taken to be laundered. Lorenz dithers for an embarrassing amount of time before settling on casual slim-fit slacks and a lavender button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows in concession to the warmth. His hair is already starting to frizz, unused to the climate, so he smooths a dollop of serum through it and coils it into a knot. He trails his fingers along the hidden shave now exposed behind his ear. It’s growing out a bit, but he estimates he has another week or two before he needs to visit his barber.

Then there’s nothing for it. He must face the music, such as it is. He gives himself one more look-over in the mirror and, satisfied, opens the bedroom door a crack. The house is quiet, though he can hear the faint tell-tale burble of a coffee pot in the last stages of a brew. Emboldened, he retraces his steps through the house to the kitchen, keeping an ear out for Claude.

He walks fearlessly into the living room and freezes. There’s a woman standing in the kitchen, framed by the island counter with its row of bar stools. She’s turned away from him at the moment, revealing an elegant green dress with a lacy cut-out over her shoulder blades and a dark, heavy coil of hair pinned at the crown of her head. For a moment Lorenz considers beating a hasty retreat. But that would be childish, so he straightens his shoulders and continues his trajectory as the woman turns and lays eyes on him. And smiles.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Gloucester boy.”

Lorenz has seen Judith Daphnel in pictures, but the real thing is infinitely more terrifying. Probably because he’s meeting her as his… what, fake potential future mother-in-law? He pastes a smile on his face and hopes he doesn’t look completely deranged as he takes her hand and finds his own trapped in a death grip.

“Ms. Daphnel, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” he says, almost entirely on autopilot.

“An honor, is it?” she laughs. Her voice has grown huskier with time—perhaps he _had_ watched some old interviews of her on the plane, though he’ll never admit it to her face—but age has been kind to her. She has only a little gray threaded through her dark brown hair, and her eyes gleam a brilliant, mascara-lined green that rakes him head to toe like a physical touch. The infamous Riegan eyes; he’s come to know them well over the last few months. “I don’t suppose you remember meeting me before. You were very young, after all.”

“I… do not recall, no, I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! You were hardly even three at the time, and quite terrified of me as I recall. So, not much has changed.” She laughs and turns back to the coffee pot, unconcerned with the flush spilling over his face at her bluntness. “Do you take cream or sugar, Lorenz?”

“A little cream, thank you.”

“I’m sorry Nader and I weren’t here to greet you. We went into town for lunch and ended up taking a little longer than planned.” _Nader? Is that his father’s name…? _“Was your flight all right? I hate flying, it always dries me out, makes me feel like a dessicated corpse afterward. Here’s your coffee, dear.”

Lorenz takes it with a murmured thank-you. “It was adequate. I’m a bit of a nervous flier, so I take medication that knocks me out for the duration. Unfortunately it makes me rather groggy afterward, so if I’m a poor guest, that’s my excuse.”

Judith laughs, the peal of a bell so like her son’s that it gives Lorenz a momentary heart palpitation. “I’m not worried. You seem like a very polite, intelligent young man.”

Lorenz blinks and tries to recall if he’s ever been called either of those things before. “Thank you, ma’am. Your good opinion means a great deal to me.”

“_Ma’am_. Listen to you.” She laughs again and pours a second cup. “Just Judith will do fine. Goodness, you’re not very much like your father at all, are you. You must take after your mother, by some miracle.”

“I… wouldn’t know,” Lorenz says faintly, once again cast adrift by her frankness. “I don’t remember much about her, unfortunately.”

“Tsk. That’s a shame. She’s a lovely woman. I’m glad to see her influence on you has not been entirely erased. But let’s not grow too maudlin, hmm? Happy thoughts for a happy day.” She comes near again and squeezes his arm in a friendly, maternal sort of way. She smells faintly of expensive perfume, and more strongly of coffee, and her eyes are intent on his face as she says, “I’m so glad my son has found a partner in you, Lorenz. He does not trust easily—to know that you have managed to lower his defenses does my heart good.”

Lorenz can’t prevent the flush crawling up his face, nor the stammering of his lips as he attempts to construct a rejoinder—her eyes are so sharp and penetrating, like she can see right through the fragile spun-sugar facade to the truth underneath. “I—I’m glad to have had some positive impact on his life,” he manages, and it seems to be the right thing to say. Her grip eases—when had it grown so firm?—and she smiles, dazzling as the sun.

“That you certainly have. Speaking of my son, where is that boy? Ah.”

Lorenz turns, following her line of sight. Through the living room to the sliding glass doors he can see Claude in his shirtsleeves and bare feet in the garden, head bent in conversation with a man twice his width and a scant few inches taller. His father, unmistakably. Though the details are difficult to make out from here, Lorenz can see a similar shade of dark, curly hair pulled back into a tail and a familiar cant to his hips as he stands with arms akimbo, contemplating whatever it is Claude is saying to him. He looks like an older, more serious version of Claude, with dark eyes instead of green—but then he throws his head back and laughs, and Lorenz can see his son written into the lines of his smile and feels instantly at ease.

“My husband, Nader,” Judith says, turning to him. “Shall we go and meet them, and I can introduce you?”

“That sounds delightful.”

Judith isn’t the type to walk arm in arm—she’s warm enough, but not exactly effusive—and she leads the way with her heels clicking smartly on the polished hardwood, then on the stone of the back patio. The men in the garden look up and see them, and their smiles are nearly identical, except that Claude’s is fond and familiar and his father’s wears a layer of politeness overtop, the sort of veneer one reserves for company.

“There you are,” Claude says, enfolding his mother for a hug and cheek-kisses. “I see you met my boyfriend already.”

“Reintroduced, really.” Judith hands the coffee to him and takes his chin in one hand, inspecting his face. “You look tired, boy.”

“Jet lag.”

“Campaign going well?”

“You know it is.” Claude captures her hand with his own and kisses the back of it. “You look beautiful, Mama. Haven’t aged a day.”

“Don’t be smart,” she tuts, but she’s smiling. “Nader, darling, this is Lorenz, of Gloucester fame. Lorenz, my husband Nader.”

Lorenz puts out his hand and finds himself tugged unexpectedly into an embrace of his own, just managing to hold his coffee free from splattering all over the pathway. “Lorenz! It’s a delight to meet you at last.” His voice rumbles through his broad chest straight into Lorenz’s ear, bassy and rumbly like the roots of mountains. “Claude’s told us so much about you.”

“Has he?” Lorenz asks, mildly alarmed.

“HA! Not nearly enough, in fact. Most of our updated about our son come from the news.” Nader withdraws and claps Lorenz on the shoulder. Coming from such a large man, Lorenz half-expects his knees to buckle and his skin to bruise, but Nader is gentler than his size would suggest; then he winks, and Lorenz feels himself blush. “But now you are both here! And we have plenty of time to play catch-up, eh my boy?” He reaches for his son as if to ruffle his hair, but Claude dodges him neatly with the ease of long practice and loops an arm around Lorenz’s waist.

“Definitely. So much catching up. A week of it.”

Judith laughs at his blatant evasion. “Don’t look so terrified, boy. We’ll ease you into it. If you’re both recuperated by this evening, Nader got tickets to a show at the local theatre. I thought we could get dinner on the boardwalk beforehand. Acquaint your beau with the local cuisine—and _re_acquaint _you_.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lorenz says, feeling the flex of tension in Claude’s diaphragm from how closely they’re stood together. “I’m afraid I’m running low on evening attire, but I might have something that will serve.”

“If not, don’t worry. It’s a small seaside town, people aren’t too fussed with finery here.” Judith links arms with her husband and graciously accepts a whiskery peck to the cheek. “We’ll let you settle in and relax for a few hours. Our reservations are at six, so we should be ready to go by half past.”

“Sounds good,” Claude says, and his parents turn to walk hand in hand back to the house. He takes a deep breath as soon as the door slides shut behind them and turns to look at Lorenz. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think they’d be home so soon.”

“It’s all right.” Enchanted by the tease of sea air through his curls, Lorenz reaches out and runs his fingers through his hair, settling it a little. “Are you all right? You look more nervous than I was.”

Claude laughs a little and leans into his touch. “I guess I was. I just… wasn’t sure how they were going to react. I’ve never brought someone home before.”

_That_ catches Lorenz off guard. “Truly?”

“Is it really so surprising? I haven’t had any time for _casual_ dating, let alone committed relationships that can withstand my parents’ scrutiny.” He smiles ruefully and steps closer, threading a finger through one of his belt loops as Lorenz struggles to main his composure. _No relationships? Not even casual dating? That… is not what I expected_. “Thank goodness for your iron constitution,” Claude adds. “They can be… a lot.”

“They clearly love you very much,” Lorenz manages. It’s not a scolding, necessarily, but Claude grimaces anyway.

“I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t complain—to you, of all people.”

“We all have our little trials. Attempting to draw comparisons does no one any good.” He isn’t sure whether Claude’s parents are watching, but months of play-acting for invisible eyes has ingrained in him certain habits. He cups the back of Claude’s head in his palm and leans down to kiss him. Claude doesn’t even flinch or inhale with surprise—just leans into it, thumbs pressing firm and comfortable against his hips.

In the sour-mint toothpaste flavor of his lips, Lorenz tastes a warmth, an easiness that he’s never felt before. Something dangerously approaching hope. The rushing in his ears gives way to a slower, shallower incline, like rolling down a hill in one’s shirtsleeves, barefoot and bareheaded to the sunshine. The kiss slows, softens.

“Mm.” Claude withdraws with darkened eyes, a shine to his lower lip. “What was that for?”

Lorenz shrugs. “Just felt like it.” Then, because that feels too bold, he glances meaningfully toward the house and adds, “And keeping up appearances.”

Claude’s lips twitch. “Very astute of you.” He takes Lorenz’s hand in his own and gives it a squeeze. “What do you say to that tour? Or are you gunning for a nap?”

“Tour first,” Lorenz decides, “then I really must evaluate my wardrobe, no matter what your mother says.”

><

Lorenz’s _evaluation_ concludes with mixed results. Most of his clothes are in need of a wash, and those he sets aside to do later. What remains is lackluster at best. He has a nice silk shirt in a deep plum color that’s wearable, if a bit dramatic with its lace-edged peter pan collar, and a jacket he can throw over it when the evening cools, but none of his clean slacks pair with either item.

There is another option. Folded in tissue paper at the bottom of his suitcase is a very self-indulgent purchase, made only with the encouragement of his old friend Marianne, who had accompanied him into town on one of the free afternoons last week. He lifts the top sheet and strokes the smooth fabric with his fingertips, considering. He has shoes to go with it, packed at the last minute on a whim. Just simple black pumps that give him a few extra inches he hardly needs. Would it be too over the top? Too… eccentric?

He sees Marianne in his mind’s eye, quiet and demure as ever, but with a spark of mischief in her smile as she held the skirt to his hips, demonstrating how it would look. She’d been so painfully shy in high school, scarcely able to look you in the eye. Dismissive of his attempts at flattery. Time and careful, patient attention has drawn her a little out of her shell, and last week had been the cumulative evidence of his own hard work: she had forced him to confront his own private fantasies and make them a reality.

_What will Claude think? _he wonders, brushing aside the tissue paper. _What will his **parents** think? _

It’s not a particularly flashy garment. Just a trim black pencil skirt with delicate black embroidery along the seams, subtle but elegant. The quarter-zipper in the back keeps the fit close against his hips; when he’d tried it on in the dressing room, he’d been shocked at the narrow curve of his waist, a blunt beanpole of a thing tapered into something elegant. Feminine, but not female. He liked the way it looked, then. He wonders if he has the courage to like it _now_.

If he really does mean to wear this tonight, he’ll only have a little leeway for a nap. Better not to risk it. With determination written in the set of his jaw, Lorenz unpacks his razor and the sugar scrub and adjourns to the bathroom, hoping Claude won’t go poking in his suitcase until he has a chance to make up his mind.

A shower and a shave later, Lorenz stands in the bathroom with the door teasingly ajar, doing up the zipper of the skirt. His legs, freshly moisturized, seem to go on for ages below the hem, which ends at a flirty four inches or so above the knee. The heels make him even taller, the shirt an elegant, flowing counterpoint to the svelte lines of the skirt.

Lorenz meets his own eyes in the mirror and takes a deep breath. He feels… fantastic, really. He turns this way and that, testing the heels. A few months of flats and plain oxfords hasn’t done an injury to his balance, thank goodness. He puts his hands on his waist and tries to relax. Lets his hips sink down, tilt sideways like he’s preparing for the catwalk. The skirt moves with his body like it’s been painted on. Not too tight, but clinging to him like a glove. When he turns to the side he can see that it’s even managed to give him a posterior—no mean feat, he admits ruefully to himself. No amount of yoga or cardio has managed to do him any favors in that department.

He’s fussing with the tuck of his shirt in front when he hears footsteps in the bedroom and Claude appears at the crack in the door, rapping his knuckles lightly on the frame.

“Knock-knock.”

“Claude. Come in.” Lorenz snaps his shoulders back and lifts his chin high, forcing his hands to drop to his sides. He meets Claude’s eyes in the mirror, watches them travel down his spine to his backside, and lower. Before he can second-guess himself, Lorenz turns and smooths the fabric over his hips. “Sorry to make you wait. I’m ready to go.”

“Hello, beautiful,” Claude says as though he hadn’t even spoken, low and husky in the back of his throat. He comes nearer, slipping a hand around the nip of Lorenz’s waist to rest at his sacrum. His eyes are warm and molten. Lorenz’s breath grows thin in his chest. “Never apologize for perfection.”

“I know it’s… unorthodox,” Lorenz begins, voice ground down to the barest whisper, but the hitch of Claude’s thumb along the nested zipper stops him in his tracks.

“You look beautiful.” Claude brushes a kiss to his cheek. “Stunning.”

“You parents won’t—won’t think it odd?” Unspoken: _your father won’t disapprove?_

“Not at all. My only concern is how I’m going to keep my hands off you all night.” Claude’s eyes clear a little suddenly, and he laughs. “Sorry, that was probably too much.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” Lorenz resists the urge to cover his blushing cheeks and fusses with Claude’s necktie instead, even though it’s fashioned perfectly at the base of his throat. His heels add even more inches to the height he already has on Claude—it seems silly to lean so far down and kiss him, but how can he resist? And Claude, dear man, lifts up on his toes to meet him in the middle, hands solid and sturdy around his waist, and Lorenz finds himself a little weak-kneed when they part with a soft, wet sound.

“Right.” Hazy-eyed, a bit pink in the face himself, Claude clears his throat and gives his hip a squeeze. “Let’s go, before they send a search party after us.”

“In their own home?” Lorenz laughs. It’s a weak joke, but he clings to it with both hands, desperate to feel grounded after the heady atmosphere of Claude’s touch. He plucks his waiting jacket off the back of the divan and drapes it over his shoulders in deference to the warm night, giving himself one last look-over in the mirror. He looks like a blushing, lovesick fool, but there’s not much he can do about _that_.

“I told you how beautiful you are,” Claude says, hip cocked against the divan, his own jacket hanging off one shoulder like a knight-errant’s dress cape. “Do you not believe me?”

Lorenz sighs and gives in, pressing cool hands to his face. “I do. But if you keep that up I’m going to be red as a tomato, and I don’t have time to color-correct right now.”

“You don’t have to correct a thing.” Claude reaches out as Lorenz comes toward him and takes hold of his hand, guiding him up the shallow steps and out of the bedroom. “As long as you can walk all right, that is.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice, Claude. Fear not.” Lorenz glances down at him. “Unless my height is an issue…?”

“Not at all. I have a _great_ view of your legs from here.”

“Claude! What did I say about compliments?”

“To… not give them? A very tall order, my dear. Almost as tall as you.”

“_Ugh_.”

Claude laughs and gives his bum a pat just before they emerge into the living room. “I’ll do my best, sweetheart.”

Lorenz has his doubts, but he keeps them to himself. Instead his attention is redirected to Judith and Nader, who are warmly complimentary and show not a whit of judgement or disapproval on their faces. He realizes, belatedly, that Claude’s teasing had taken his mind off his nerves. He looks to him, wanting to thank him if only with his eyes. But Claude has already been roped into a conversation with his father about the evening’s entertainment, and the moment passes.

He will just have to make his appreciation known later. In private.

><

Dinner is exquisite, probably. Claude hardly tastes it. All his focus is being taken up by two things: maintaining an even, steady, charismatic conversation… and Lorenz.

He’s in over his head and he knows it. Every time he drags his eyes away from his fake boyfriend, he catches his mother watching, her eyes sharp and knowing in her smiling face. But he can’t help it. Lorenz is beautiful in the low light of the patio, illuminated like a painting by candlelight, long hair catching the glimmer of stars bouncing off the dark water. Now settled in his own skin, he moves with confidence and poise. If he attracts any odd glances or double-takes, they’re smoothed away in the effortless grace he exudes as they sit and talk over dinner, and then as they stroll arm in arm beside the water in the direction of the theatre.

His mother isn’t the only one with sharp eyes and a sharper smile. Lorenz is clearly all too aware of his own charms, and he makes good use of them. He doesn’t _flaunt_ himself, per se, but there is a certain level of _bedroom eyes_ happening, and Claude does not appreciate it. At all.

“We are on a dinner date with my _parents_,” he hisses, practically on tiptoe to reach Lorenz’s ear. The water laps against the dock and Lorenz’s heels clack against the boardwalk and Claude is _enamored._ It’s isn’t _fair._

“We are indeed,” Lorenz says primly. “Astutely observed, Claude.”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

Claude glares at him through the fistful of curls falling over his brow that have escaped his styling attempts in the late spring heat. “Nevermind,” he says, and slides a hand beneath Lorenz’s jacket to the sweat-dappled damp of his lower back. “I’ll tell you later.”

In the theatre, Claude is restless and ill-fitting in his own skin. He regrets wearing such a snugly-cut suit; at times his ribs expand and it feels like he can’t catch a full breath. Every inhale is filled with the subtle lavender-smoke of Lorenz’s cologne, marred with dust and sweat. He spends the first act with his hands stubbornly in his lap, trying to ignore the delicate cross of Lorenz’s ankles, the press of his pale thighs exposed by the skirt’s ridden-up hem.

At intermission he escapes to the bathroom, but when he finally winds his way back to their seats, only his mother remains, standing between the rows with her phone out and her hip propped against the seat in front of her. Claude winces internally but approaches, hoping the few audience members scattered about will curb her acerbic tongue.

No such luck.

“You’re looking a little flushed, my dear,” she says, slipping her phone into her purse. She stands a few inches taller than he, and beckons him to rest his head on her shoulder, pressing her cool, dry hands against his face. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine, Mama.”

“So just lovesick, then,” she says, and tuts when he pulls away. “I don’t know what scheme you’ve cooked up this time, boy, but take care that it doesn’t turn and bite you when you least expect it, yes?”

“There is no_ scheme_,” he mumbles. He tugs on the hem of his waistcoat, trying to approximate the appearance of a grown man instead of the flustered little boy kicking his heels against the prison of his Sunday best.

“Perhaps that’s the problem.” She smiles, red lipstick as perfectly precise as it had been when they set off for dinner. He doesn’t know how she does it. It’s like a suit of armor, shiny and polished, her defense against the world. A kind of self-preservation he never learned how to mimic. “Don’t hold it against yourself too harshly, Claude. Love always arrives when we least expect it, and when we are the least prepared to deal with its foibles.”

“_Maman…_”

“Claude von Riegan, are you really going to look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t desperately head over heels for that man?” She has the decency to keep her voice low, at least, even if the arch of her eyebrow feels sharp enough to eviscerate him where he stands. “If I had my suspicions before, they are well and truly cemented now. You’ve hardly been able to take your eyes off him all night.”

“To be fair, he’s gorgeous.”

“Thank goodness he takes after his mother. If he had Arthur’s legs he never would be able to pull off heels like that.”

“Mother!”

“What? It’s the truth.” She swats him gently with her program, eyes glittering. “This is not exactly the place for motherly advice, but you know I’ll happily give it, if you ask.”

Claude makes a face and rubs his arm, though the blow was soft and barely felt. “I don’t need advice. Everything is under control.”

“Mmhmm. So it would seem.”

He follows her line of sight over the back of the seats and watches as his father and Lorenz return to the auditorium. Nader is laughing at something too loudly, as usual, his left arm bent to allow Lorenz to slip a hand through it. Claude’s heart swells in his chest and he scrambles to cover the sappy expression on his face, exposed to his mother’s shrewd gaze.

They settle themselves again as the lights begin to dim. Lorenz tucks a narrow thread of hair behind his ear and Claude looks to his neck, long and elegant, hemmed in by the snug collar of his shirt. _You’re just horny_, he tells himself matter-of-factly. _Maman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. _He sits back in his seat and lets his hand rest gently on Lorenz’s knee. The skin is warm and smooth, hairless—had he shaved for this?

He waits to be told off, but then the curtain is lifting and the auditorium is dark, and Lorenz folds his program in his lap and sits perfectly still. Claude smiles at nothing and rubs his thumb back and forth a little, letting the activity on stage draw his attention for once.

He’s not entirely sure what’s going on, since the first act had been a blur, but he enjoys himself nonetheless; enjoys the soft laughter of the man next to him, and the soft skin of his thigh where his hand rests just beneath the hem of the skirt. Not too high, but not exactly chaste, either. A few times he feels Lorenz flinch, when his fingers stray too far. So he keeps things light, a little teasing, a little flirty, and waits impatiently for the evening to draw to a close.

The drive back feels like a dream. He sits with Lorenz’s hand in his across from his parents, discussing the show. Somehow he contributes to the conversation, even though he barely remembers what the plot was. His mother is laughing at him with her eyes, his father is suitably impressed by Lorenz’s wit and dry sense of humor, and Claude can’t help the bubbly warmth in his breast. They paint a pretty little domestic scene together that feels shockingly real. Like he could reach out and touch it and find it whole, solid ground beneath his feet. The warm approval of his parents, the weight of a ring in his pocket, Lorenz in his hand and his heart and his life. Inextricable.

_Plenty of practice_, Lorenz had said_._ What had he meant by that? Claude’s head is filled with thoughts of Lorenz in a dark club, skintight leather pants, Louboutins putting him head and shoulders above the crowd. Or else Lorenz in his own apartment, opening a shoebox lovingly swaddled in tissue paper for the first time, practicing in the privacy of his own home. Wobbly and tentative at first like a newborn deer, but slowly gaining confidence and poise until he could stride across the room without a single shred of discomfort.

When they arrive at the house, Nader invites them to the patio for a glass of wine, but Lorenz declines on account of his sore feet and jet lag. Claude makes his excuses as well, fumbling. Judith just smiles and links arms with her husband, drawing his attention, and Claude makes good his escape.

Just inside the bedroom door, he watches as Lorenz leans against the wall and peels his heels off one by one with a contented sigh. “Feel better?” he asks, gently.

“Much. I’ll be feeling it tomorrow, but.” He flips his long violet hair and smiles at Claude over his shoulder. “It was worth it.”

“Worth driving me crazy, you mean?” Pressing away from the doorframe, Claude saunters toward him, letting himself be reeled in like a fish on an old, familiar line. The same fisherman always lurking near the surface, the fish forever tempted. He knows he’s opening his jaws to disaster, but he can’t help himself. He curves his hands around Lorenz’s narrow waist and presses him to the wall. “_Finally._”

Lorenz arches a brow at him, lower lip worried between his teeth in a half-smile. “Are you asking me for an apology?”

“Absolutely not.” Claude gives him a squeeze and sinks to his knees. “Just let me have this, baby, all right?” His fingertips alight up Lorenz’s calves, following the silky smooth skin to the hem of the skirt that lands just a few modest inches above the knee. “Just tonight. I promise I’ll be good to you.”

~

_Is he asking for tonight, or is he asking for forever?_

Lorenz catches his breath in his chest and nods, chin tipped down to give him the best possible view. He’s been hard off and on all night, a test of the compression shorts he’s wearing underneath. Not the sexiest destination for Claude’s wandering hands, but it was better than embarrassing himself at dinner—on the boardwalk—in the theatre—in the goddamn_ car_ where his parents could see everything.

And Claude doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. His lips are currently busy at the inner skin of his thigh, kissing softly, lips framed by the soft, trimmed hair of his beard. His hands slowly move up his legs, pushing the skirt up and out of the way inch by inch. Lorenz can feel the roughness of his palms, the blunt taper of his fingers; his shy tongue, whenever it deigns to slip out and tease. He widens his stance as much as he can, breathless, but the skirt is still low enough to restrict his movement. Claude hums a little noise and smiles up at him.

“What are these?”

“Just… shorts,” he admits breathlessly. “Not very alluring, I’m sorry—”

“Stop it. You know I could barely look away from you all night.” Claude makes the admission boldly, without apology. He meets his eyes and slips a hand up between Lorenz’s parted thighs, rubbing the flat of his hand against the bulge straining valiantly against the fabric of his shorts. “Can I take these off?”

“Please do,” Lorenz whispers, wondering if he might faint.

He has to tug his skirt up a little to give Claude more room to work, and then Claude is peeling his shorts down slowly, leaving angry pink lines behind where the seams had dug into his hips. Claude helps him slide them off one foot at a time and sits back on his heels. Lorenz must look a picture: skirt rumpled and tented obscenely, shirt half-untucked, face flushed and dewy from the attention. Claude just smiles, starry-eyed, and leans his face against Lorenz’s hip. “You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles into the fabric. “Can I suck you, baby? Can I take care of you?”

“Yes,” Lorenz whispers. “Yes.”

With warm hands, Claude pushes his skirt up, far enough that the heavy, bobbing weight of his erection is exposed to the room. Fingers curled in the bunched fabric, he leans in and laves his tongue along the head. Lorenz shivers, legs trembling. Thank goodness he’d taken off his shoes, or he’d have toppled over thrice over by now. Claude’s tongue is warm and wet and soft, dizzyingly good—it trails along the underside of his prick and back up to the tip where it lingers, curling against the frenulum while his nails drag pale pink lines against his thighs. There’s a muffled slurping noise and Claude hums, lets his cockhead bob against the pout of his lower lip.

“You taste nice,” he murmurs, fingers digging slightly into the backs of his thighs. Coaxing. “Wanna come lay down?”

Lorenz nods mutely. The heat of Claude’s touch tingles in his limbs and down his spine as he stumbles to the bed and sits gingerly at the edge of it. He plucks at the hem of his skirt, uncertain, but Claude tsks gently at him and pushes his hands away.

“Wanna take this off?”

“If you can bear to,” Lorenz teases, breathless. He has a lapful of Claude, suddenly—sturdy thighs encase his own, and broad hands slide down his back, tugging his shirt free where it was tucked in so nicely. Then there are fingers at the zipper, and he feels it begin dragged down slow, tooth by metal tooth as Claude worries a love bite to the underside of his jaw.

“Claude—”

“Sorry. No marks?”

“Just… keep them under my clothes?”

“Yeah, ’course.”

It’s only been a week, but they move together like they’ve been doing this for years. Claude climbs off, giving Lorenz a quick kiss to placate him, and helps him wriggle out of his skirt, trading giggles as they pull him free of the snug-fitting fabric. Then Lorenz is sprawled on his elbows in just his shirt, but he has no time to be embarrassed. Claude undoes each button with his own hands, leaving a kiss behind like he’s sowing flower petals across Lorenz’s pale skin. Then he makes swift work of his own clothes: necktie, jacket, waistcoat, belt.

Lorenz lays back against the quilt, legs dangling off the mattress, and just watches. Claude isn’t performing, right now—doesn’t take his time. But the act is still incredibly sexy, even in its efficiency. Claude only slows down a little when he reaches his shirt buttons, and then only because they’re so stupidly small that he has to bend all his focus to the task. Lorenz bites back laughter and rubs his foot along Claude’s leg, watching his chest bare itself inch by inch.

“Enjoying the view?” Claude laughs, finally pulling his shirt out of his pants and letting it fall to the ground. His shoulders are round and strong, chest and belly nicely furred. Lorenz licks his lips.

“Very much.”

“Not as much as I am, I’ll bet.” Claude’s dress pants follow, then socks and boxer briefs. His knee hits the mattress and he leans over Lorenz with a little smirk playing at his lips. “What a shame I left my dick at home. Want your pretty legs wrapped around my waist.”

Lorenz groans at the thought and reaches for him, drags him down to his level for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. “That could still be arranged,” he whispers.

~

Claude kisses him back, wet and hungry as he finds Lorenz’s cock with his left hand. It’s hot and thick and heavy in his grip, slick at the tip and perfect for rubbing his thumb against. Lorenz squirms against the mattress and lets it happen. He’s so pretty like this, flushed pink, defenses worn thin, malleable under Claude’s hands. He kisses so hungrily, like he’s been starved for years and suddenly presented a feast. _He deserves it_, Claude thinks, easing his hips down to frot against the underside of Lorenz’s cock. _Temporary or not, I can at least give him that. _

Malleable indeed. Lorenz grips Claude’s hips and holds on for dear life as Claude rocks in his lap, easy and slow. He’s soaking wet, so slippery he can _hear_ himself rubbing off on Lorenz’s pretty pink dick; it would be so easy to ease back and take him inside, that thick weight pressing in all the way to the hilt. Claude moans against his tongue and fumbles between them, pinching his own cock between his fingers to feel the hot stabbing thrill of it.

“Can I fuck you?” he croons, hips squirreling side to side.

“I—I don’t have, erm… protection…”

Claude laughs and kisses him. “It’s all right, you’re in no danger of knocking me up.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Quite sure.” He presses two fingers inside himself, testing the stretch. His eyes roll back in his head and he gasps for breath. “Fuck. I wanna sit on your cock, baby, _please…_”

Lorenz gulps and nods, and Claude takes his dick in his hand and rubs the head between his wet folds. Lorenz makes the _prettiest_ noises during sex, whimpers and choked-back sobs and breathy gasps, entirely unselfconscious; but right now he’s perfectly quiet, biting his lower lip and clutching the blankets beneath him like they’re the only thing keeping his head above water. His cock nestles sweetly between Claude’s labia and _in_, just slightly, and his throat bobs on a desperate swallow.

“All right?” Claude whispers, watching him closely.

Lorenz nods once, jerkily. His knuckles are white where they clutch the blanket, a porcelain contrast to the flush crawling down his chest.

“You’re trembling.”

“You’re a _tease_,” Lorenz snaps back, and when Claude laughs, fond and aroused, he slaps a hand over his mouth that tastes of rosewater and sweat.

“Are you afraid of being overhead?” Claude murmurs against his palm, tilting his hips forward and back so that the head of Lorenz’s cock eases in and out of him very, very shallowly. “_Mmf_ baby, your cock is so big—”

“Claude, you’re ridiculous,” Lorenz hisses even as his dick twitches where it’s pressed up against Claude’s sweet spot. “I just—this is your _parents’_ house, I don’t want to—to impose, or make a nuisance of ourselves.”

“We won’t be heard, I promise. The walls are _very_ well-insulated.” Claude groans low in his throat, clenching his internal muscles around the head of Lorenz’s cock. It’s about an inch shy of the length of his favorite toy, and there’s still a lot more left to go—if he doesn’t have it in him soon he’s going to lose his mind. “But if you’re uncomfortable…”

Lorenz groans, half arousal half concession, and trades the sheets for Claude’s hips. His fingers press deep into the flesh of his backside as he coaxes Claude down onto his cock. “I’m only uncomfortable,” he gasps, “because you’re not riding me right now.”

“Ha… fair enough.” Claude plants a hand on Lorenz’s chest for stability and follows the momentum, easing down, down. He’s so slick that there’s hardly any resistance—just the press of his cock opening him up wide, rubbing against his sweet spots and filling him to the brim and beyond. Claude is hardly breathing by the time he’s seated flush. Every breath shifts the girth of Lorenz’s cock inside him, so he pants shallowly, free hand pressed to his own belly as if hoping for evidence of Lorenz’s trespass.

“Claude—” Lorenz says, strangled. His hair fans across the bedspread like a lavender sunrise as he tips his head back, eyes closed like he’s trying to stop himself from cumming too quickly.

“Just seeing if I could feel.” Claude eases forward and back, testing the stretch. It’s a lot, just this side of painful, but the ache is too delicious not to chase. “Goddess. Can I move, sweetheart?”

“Please. Just… slowly.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that’d be nice.”

Slowly, Claude puts his hands over Lorenz’s wrists, coaxing him to pet his chest and belly. Slowly, he works himself up from a tentative back-and-forth to an exquisite up-and-down motion, spurred by the gasping and whimpering of the man spread beneath him. Slowly, Lorenz feels and finds the rhythm, matching it on every downstroke. His hands trail down Claude’s chest, over scars he barely feels, over hair grown in thick and curly. They find Claude’s hands, splayed over Lorenz’s ribs, and lace their fingers together as Claude bows forward and claims Lorenz’s mouth in a kiss.

“Claude,” he whispers, voice shredded from held-back cries. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to last—”

“It’s okay, baby.” Claude kisses him again, swiftly, moving his hips with more purpose. His thighs are burning a little, out of practice, but the sweet sucker-punch of Lorenz’s cock slamming into him is too good to slow down. “You can let go.”

It’s like he’s only been waiting for permission. Lorenz shoves up into him a few more times, graceless, and grows a mottled red as he cums. Claude likes to fancy he can feel it, sticky and thick and hot inside him—and when he lifts up, letting his cock slip out of him and smack wetly against his abdomen, he _can_ feel it, already starting to drip out of him in thick globs. Claude slips two fingers into himself and hooks them against his sweet spot, shivering when his hand comes away sticky.

Lorenz drops his head to the mattress, looking stunned, but grabs for Claude, pulling him forward with clumsy hands until Claude is straddling his shoulders. “Are you sure?” Claude breathes, but Lorenz just smiles, face slack with endorphins as he sticks his tongue out and runs it through the mess of Claude’s cunt.

Claude loses a little bit of time, after that. Lorenz has gone from eager but clumsy to practiced and precise within just a few short nights, and he knows exactly how to suck him, how to fuck him with his tongue. He doesn’t seem to care that Claude is leaking his own spend, or that his face is a mess of fluids, or that there are times, right on the cusp of orgasm, when Claude forgets his manners and rides his tongue for all he’s worth. Lorenz eats him out with gusto, and when he’s licked all the cum out of him, he wraps his lips around Claude’s dick and sucks him til he comes a third time, a fourth, shaking and shouting and squirting all over his chin and throat.

“_Fuck_,” Claude wheezes, rolling off him before his rubber limbs betray him and he breaks Lorenz’s pretty neck with his weight. “Fucking—goddess _bless_ your mouth, Lorenz.”

“It was adequate, then?” Lorenz asks, the persnickety diction somewhat ruined by his hoarse, soggy voice. He pats around for a stray garment—Claude’s underpants—and pats his chin dry before nestling in beside him. Claude welcomes him in against his chest with an arm around his shoulders, fingers tangled in his hair.

“It was fantastic.” He wheezes a little laugh and smothers a kiss into Lorenz’s crown. “We’ll work on your stamina, but I have no complaints whatsoever.”

“Ah.” Lorenz’s sex flush had been starting to fade, but it returns now in force, illuminating his body like the glow of sunlight through a stained-glass window. “I am… sorry about that.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Another kiss, softer this time; Claude lets his nose linger there after, breathing in the sweet lavender-vanillin of his hair. “I said I had no complaints.”

“I—it’s been some time since I was, er, intimate with anyone—”

“You don’t have to apologize, Lorenz, I wasn’t—”

“—and truth be told I’ve never really—”

“—trying to make fun of you, you’ve been nothing but good to—wait, what?”

Lorenz snaps his mouth shut, staring determinedly at Claude’s chest. “Let’s just say I haven’t had… quite the extensive amount of experience that some have.”

Claude leans back a bit, trying to get a good look at his face. “Hang on. What’s _extensive experience_?”

“Does it matter?” Lorenz says waspishly. “Need I remind you that virginity is a social construct engineered to belittle—”

_Virginity? _A cold fist grips Claude’s guts and he sits up on his elbow in earnest, trying to divine the truth of his expression. Lorenz still refuses to look at him. “Lorenz, I swear I’m not mocking you, I just…”

He thinks of Lorenz’s anxiety the night in the cedar grove; his uncertainty as he tried to avoid further discussion; the unexpected dom streak that had knocked Claude on his ass so hard he hadn’t thought to question the awkward fit of it against his skin.

“Remember what I said a few days ago, about taking advantage? That, but bass boosted.”

Lorenz sits up unexpectedly, twisting his mussed hair into a sleek ribbon with a few passes of his hands. “You don’t believe I can have desires and act upon them in a mature manner?” he says coolly, and Claude winces. Time to backtrack.

“That’s not what I mean. I just… I may have said some things, that night, that I regret. If I’d known…”

“If you had known, you wouldn’t have touched me?” Lorenz asks. His coolness has frozen over, frost turned black and slick as ice. Claude half fears he’ll shatter if he tries to touch him—but he knows no other way. Gentle, slow, Claude reaches out and rubs a hand down Lorenz’s elegant spine, a warm, possessive touch. Lorenz stiffens, but does not pull away. Little victories.

“I might have gone about it a little differently, that’s all. Treated you like you deserve.” Claude shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against Lorenz’s back, grateful to the point of heartbreak when Lorenz permits it. “I already feel guilty every day that I’m taking so many _firsts _from you. And now I’ve taken another and I didn’t even realize it.”

“You’re being surprisingly precious about this, Claude.” Lorenz sighs, softens. Reaches back and tangles his fingers in Claude’s sex-mussed hair. “Thank you. For your concern. But I am, to all appearances, a grown man. And for what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed every moment of this…”

“Affair?” Claude suggests, rubbing his whiskery smile against Lorenz’s shoulder blade.

Lorenz huffs. Claude hopes it’s laughter. “Affair. Yes.”

“It’s very sordid. Very… scandalous.” Claude leans up to nibble at the edge of his ear, hands settling on his ribs possessively. “If anyone were to find out, imagine the outcry!”

“Claude,” Lorenz says, very sternly.

“Yes, dear?”

Lorenz turns at last, a rumpled frown on his face like an ill-fitting mask. Beneath, he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s a funny sort of halfway-expression, not at all the polished _Lorenz Hellman Gloucester_ he presents to the world. Claude thinks, somewhat ruefully, that he’s very much in danger of falling in love with him.

“Let’s sleep,” he says quickly, before Lorenz can say anything. He swoops in and kisses him, distraction upon distraction, and breathes out a soft relief when Lorenz acquiesces. Such terrifying revelations are better left til morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really connected, but Lorenz's LookTM was loosely inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/_bogoro/status/1223487666160918528) art I commissioned of Lorenz in a skirt from bogoro!!!! It's AMAZING and BEAUTIFUL and I haven't stopped looking at it for three days.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conversations and a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up all pretense of an update schedule. Pressing pause on this while I work on some special stuff for Valentine's Day, and then we'll be back at it!

The next few days pass by too quickly. Claude feels like a kid again, unfettered by the burdens of the path he’s chosen to walk. Apart from checking his text messages now and then, trusting Hilda to take care of any minor emergencies that crop up and notify him of things he needs to take care of personally, he keeps his phone off and his mind in the present. Whatever burdens linger just off stage, they can wait.

His parents play along with his little game, though he no longer feels like the puppetmaster controlling all the strings; rather, he has become a puppet himself, dancing helplessly to the tune of Lorenz’s fiddle. He doesn’t mind as much as he probably should.

During the day he takes great pleasure in showing Lorenz around the small town and all its delights: food, drink, little boutiques filled with treasures, the sea and its many bounties. His parents accompany them occasionally, but they have their own work to see to, and more often than not it’s just him and Lorenz, enjoying the sun and the sea air and freedom from constant observation. In the evenings they reconvene for dinner, or games, or long evenings on the patio with cocktails and his father’s fragrant cigars. And at night… at night Lorenz is entirely his. Happy to follow his lead, or take up the reins himself; happy to fall into Claude’s arms again and again, learning to let himself go. Just _happy._

The fifth day, Lorenz neglects to reapply sunscreen frequently enough and retires to their bedroom for an afternoon nap with the blinds drawn. After fussing over him as much as he’ll allow, Claude withdraws to let him rest. At loose ends, he wanders into the garden where his mother reclines with a martini and a publisher’s catalogue. The direction of her gaze is difficult to discern behind her designer sunglasses, but he suspects she’s not reading it that closely.

“There you are,” she says as he slinks nearer, proving him right. She flips the catalogue shut and crosses one leg over the other, leaning her head back against the chair to peer at him. “Is your man all right?”

“Fine. Just overdid it a bit. I’ll check on him in an hour, maybe with some aloe.”

He stands with his hip propped against the back of the chair and pets his fingers through the streak of gray that sprouts from her forehead. A witch’s stripe, his father calls it, just to watch her grumble. She’d stopped dyeing it a few years after Claude was born, but he’s seen pictures of her without it, younger in the face but more exhausted, embroiled in the affairs of the country she left behind.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” she asks, not bothering to scold him for being so tactile. She’s less particular about her looks than she used to be. “Are you really that bored without the Gloucester boy to entertain you?”

“I was coming to ask for advice, but if you’re just going to tease me I’ll leave you to it.”

“Ah.” She sets her catalogue aside and plucks her glasses off, nesting them in her hair instead. “This sounds serious.”

“I may have gotten myself into… a difficulty.” At her wordless urging, Claude peels away from her side and drops into the other chair, angled slightly toward her in the grass. He digs his bare toes into it, lush and green, and looks away from her face to the silhouette of the banana tree against the cerulean sky. “Maman, how did you know you were in love with Baba?” The words come to him in Almyran, easier and smoother on his tongue than his second language. His mother doesn’t bat an eye, responding in kind.

“If you’re asking for a specific moment, I’m afraid I don’t have one. It was a great deal of little moments, all building to a crescendo I could no longer ignore.”

“Tell me?”

Judith quirks an eyebrow at him. “Why the sudden interest, Khalid?”

“You know why.”

“Sometimes it’s good to hear it said out loud regardless.”

“Maman…”

“Very well. Keep your secrets.” She takes a sip from her glass and regards the contents, as though peering through a crystal ball to reveal the hidden past. “You recall that we met at a charity event. I was presenting. He caught me afterwards to congratulate me on my speech. I was… flattered, to say the least.”

Claude flutters his eyelashes. “Stone cold Judith Daphnel, seduced by a foreign prince…”

“Hush, boy. Who’s the one telling the story?”

“You, Maman, of course. Sorry.”

“I was flattered, but hardly seduced. I didn’t trust him. I thought he was after something, some political connection, some sort of gain whose repercussions I could not yet see. As time passed I realized he was interested in me for reasons beyond the political. Still I held him at arm’s length, but he was… he was easy to be around, and at the time there was no one else in my life like that. No one I could call up in the middle of the night for a cry, or laugh with over drinks without a shred of falsity. There were many eyes on us, so we took great pains not to be seen together—what we shared, it was something we did not want the public eye to taint.”

She pauses for breath. He can feel her looking at him, the prickle of discerning eyes on the side of his face. He fixes his gaze on the ground between his feet, trying not to squirm. She sighs and picks up the thread again.

“I never considered myself a romantic, but time and again he proved himself: his affections, his honesty, his noble heart. He spoke to me of his own doubts, of wanting to shed the burden of monarchy. Of wanting a simple life. After what I’d gone through to get where I was, after all I’d sacrificed… I shouldn’t have wanted that. I knew it. But I wanted it anyway. I wanted something I had built with my own two hands, something that wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter at birth, before I was old enough to understand what the responsibility meant.

“I knew I loved him, in the end, because he allowed me that choice. To stay, to continue to shape the future I’d envisioned for my county; or to leave, and let the chips fall where they may. He never asked me to choose him. He only made sure that he was there, ready with a suitcase packed, when I called him up and told him to get on a plane.”

Claude worries his lower lip with his teeth. “You never thought… maybe he wasn’t right for you? That maybe circumstances fabricated emotional connections that weren’t real?”

“I feared that exact thing, many times. But a dear friend told me something that I have never forgotten: our circumstances do shape us. Influence us, sometimes to extremes. But that does not make our fears and hopes and desires any less important.” She leans forward then, catching his eye despite himself. “I know you have grand plans, Khalid. I know that I have… mistrusted those plans. Mistrusted the path you walk, after what that path did to me. But you are your own man, now. That is a difficult thing for a mother to witness, but I am proud of you nonetheless. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Maman,” he whispers. When she reaches for him he doesn’t pull away; lets her cup the side of his face, thumb tracing the whiskers growing in at the corner of his mouth.

“You love him,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“What is keeping you from telling him so?”

“I… I’m afraid of what he will say. He said that we are… not compatible.” He swallows. “Romantically.”

“And you don’t think that perhaps he is telling himself the same lies you are, to keep from being hurt?” She pats his cheek, a touch too hard for fondness but not quite a slap, either. “You’re being a fool. How long have you loved him?”

“A long time,” he admits. He rubs his reddened cheek morosely. “Since school, maybe. I thought he was straight, so I never made a move on him. And now we’re dating, and playing pretend, and everyone is watching all the time… it’s all a mess, Maman.”

“You’re good at getting yourself in messes, boy,” she sighs, in Basic again. “But you are just as good at getting yourself out of them. You’ll think of a way.”

Claude heaves a sigh and sits back in his chair. “Yeah.” He taps his fingers restlessly on the arms of the chair. _I have to tell him. This can’t go on, I can’t afford the distraction. _“Got any more of those?” he asks, indicating her martini glass.

“You know where the liquor cabinet is.” She drains the rest in one swallow and crushes the olive between her molars with finality. “Make me another while you’re at it. Motherly advice tax.”

“Yes, Maman.” Standing, he takes her glass and bends down to kiss her cheek. “Thank you. For the advice, and the story.”

“Anytime, my love.”

><

Lorenz wakes in the cool darkness of the air conditioning, still sun-flushed and disoriented. There’s a tall glass of water on the nightstand next to him, which he takes and makes quick work of; then he swings his legs over the side of the bed and tries to get his bearings.

The curtains are drawn over the doors, but from this angle he can see out into a sliver of garden, painted a greyish-green with twilight. The little brass clock on the nightstand tells him it’s seven oh three. He pats his face carefully, and, finding it warm but not blistered, rises to change and relieve himself and inquire after dinner.

The first floor is quiet when he pads through to the kitchen, all the lights dimmed and the sliding doors open to the balmy evening air. The dinner table is lacking its dressing, placemats taken off to the laundry after dinner, but there is one place setting awaiting him, complete with a glass of chilled white and a bowl of cucumber and tomato salad that’s still cool to the touch. _Good timing. _

His long nap and slight sunburn leave him feeling not that hungry, but he eats a little and takes the wine with him as he wanders to the door. The gardens are empty; perhaps they’ve gone into town? He left his phone in the bedroom, and he doesn’t feel inclined to go check. A cool, dark evening in the garden by himself sounds rather nice, actually.

He’s turning to fetch a jacket from the hook on the wall—Claude’s ratty yellow university hoodie has survived the years, it seems—when he hears familiar laughter drifting down from upstairs. Claude is home after all. Lorenz folds the hoodie over his arm and pads through the house to the foot of the stairs. When he’d received a tour that first day, clinging to Claude’s elbow like it was a port in a storm, the upstairs had been brief. It was smaller than the first floor, containing a master suite, an office, and an open room with wide, east-facing windows that looked like it had been intended for a rec room. Nader had turned half of it into a garden nursery. The other half belonged to Judith, and was a combination of tall bookshelves crammed with reading and research material, and a desk facing the sea with a computer and several notebooks stacked neatly at the corners.

When he climbs to the top floor, the rec area is dark, as is the office on the other side of the hall; but he can hear low voices, the murmuring sound of muffled Almyran coming through the half-open door. Bemused, he pokes his head in, and is startled to find a narrow band of light on the other side of the room where the bookcase has been pushed away.

_A secret chamber?_ His sun-muddled head is delighted as a boy by this turn of events. He slips the rest of the way into the office. In the faint, diffuse light coming from behind the false wall, the details of the room leap out at him in a new way. The closed laptop that, on closer inspection, is off and faintly layered with dust. The potted plant in the window that is wilting faintly for want of water, when every other plant in the house is green and thriving. This room hasn’t been used regularly in a very long time; apart from a cursory weekly cleaning, it likely doesn’t see any activity at all. Only the passing of footsteps as Nader crosses through it to the hidden room beyond.

What had Claude said he did? Private security? Interest piqued, lulled by the calm tone of the conversation he can’t understand, he tiptoes a little further in.

“Absolutely not,” Claude says suddenly, making him jump.

“Khalid,” Nader consoles, and reluctantly follows his son into Fódlan Basic, “is it really so terrible? I know you have been reluctant to enter the political arena in your home country—”

“There _is_ no political arena here. Not the kind I can enter on my own merits.”

“Your lineage would permit it. You cousin would welcome your presence on the Council.”

“My _lineage_ has done me enough favors already. Why are you trying to convince me about this? You and Mum never wanted me getting into politics in the first place, and now you’re trying to entice me back… why? What is it you aren’t telling me?”

“There are… shifts happening at court. Farid is pressing for economic reform that the council is slow to accept. The weight of your opinion would do a great deal for his cause.”

Claude is silent a moment, long enough that Lorenz realizes he’s been holding his breath. He gulps for air as quietly as he can, heart pounding in his chest as he sets his untouched wine down on the desk. Farid… Farid Barbarossa, the King of Almyra, is Claude’s _cousin_? He blinks rapidly in the dark, clutching the faded yellow hoodie to his breast like a security blanket. He shouldn’t be hearing this. He should go, before he is discovered.

“I appreciate what Farid is doing,” Claude says. “But that’s blatant nepotism, what you’re suggesting. Even if I _did_ want to move back to Almyra and stick my fingers in the goings-on at court, which I don’t, sorry Baba, any pressure I put on the council would stand out like a sore thumb. Do you really want to risk the reputation of this family, _my_ reputation—which is already on thin ice, I might add—for the sake of… what? Your pride? Fixing your own mistakes?”

“Khalid,” Nader says, sternly this time, and says something very quickly in Almyran that Lorenz has no hope in hell of comprehending. _Is khalid a name, or a word? I heard him use it once before… _

“We must agree to disagree, Baba,” Claude replies after a pause. “Unless you intend to order me.”

“I’m not the King anymore, boy,” Nader chuckles. “Only your father. As much as I would like to, I cannot _order_ you to do anything.”

Lorenz doesn’t hear anything more. The rushing of blood in his ears drowns out all other sounds, like the crashing of waves against the shore. _I’m not the King anymore. _

It had been a whole to-do, though Lorenz was too young to understand what was going on at the time. The King of Almyra, abdicating. Leaving his brother to ascend the throne. It was a fairly smooth transition, he recalls from history class; the King and the court had clearly been preparing for the exchange of power for some time. Years, maybe.

He tries to count back on his fingers, in his cloudy childhood memories. He’d been, what, three? Four? Claude would have been about the same age. He wracks his brain with all his might, but he cannot for the life of him recall whether the King had had a wife when he stepped down. Or a son.

He turns, meaning to leave the room as quietly as he can, and two things happen in very quick succession. One, his eyes catch on the tapestry above the desk. A beautiful piece of art, though the dimness of the room bleaches the colors and flattens the pattern to bare basics: a roaring gryphon resplendent below a rising half-sun. The coat of arms of the royal family of Almyra. Second, he loses his balance and puts his arm out to catch himself against the wall. The sad potted plant upon the windowsill crashes to the floor, and the pot shatters across the carpet and dry dirt spills everywhere like the dust of an upended canopic jar.

It makes no sense to flee, not when the evidence is so clearly stacked against him, but he flees anyway. He can barely swallow past the lump in his throat, can barely _breathe_. Claude is… what, royalty? The son of the former king? His mind is spinning, trying to weave together all these impossible facts into the web of what he knows about Claude, and it keeps coming up empty. Is it possible, after all this time, that he really doesn’t know a damn thing about the man he’s been pretending to date for six months? Is it really possible that his closest friend is such a stranger?

He’s standing on the patio suddenly, though he barely remembers the journey here. He’s still holding Claude’s university sweatshirt. With shaking hands he unfolds the garment over his arm, looking at the cracked vinyl that spells out the name of their school, the fighting fish mascot underneath.

“Lorenz?”

He whirls, holding the hoodie to his chest. Claude stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, with the wide-eyed look of someone watching a piece of fine china fall to the floor in slow motion.

_Breathe._

“I didn’t mean to—intrude,” Lorenz manages to get out. He stares at Claude like he’s staring at a half-finished puzzle. Trying to connect the dots. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s—hey, easy.” Claude takes his hand back, rebuffed by Lorenz’s instinctive jerk back. “How much did you, um. Hear?”

“More than I should have,” Lorenz admits. Confusion is solidifying into something else, something perilously close to anger. “I will do my best to forget it, if that’s what you want, but you’ll have to be patient with me. It’s going to take a lot of time and mental effort to forget that I have been unknowingly courting the _crown prince of Almyra._”

“I’m not the crown prince!” Claude hastens to say. “Not anymore.”

Lorenz snorts. “Cold comfort.”

“And I didn’t intend to keep it from you forever, if you can believe it. _Please_ believe it, Lorenz. I’ve wanted to tell you so many times over the years, but even more so recently.” He stops to catch his breath and his words, peering at him from beneath a stray lock of hair that’s fallen across his brow. Unfairly beautiful. “Please, Lorenz. Will you let me explain?”

To his dismay, the fragile feelings of anger and betrayal are already shuddering beneath the battering ram of Claude’s plaintive eyes. Lorenz lets his shoulders sag. “Fine. I suppose it’s my own fault, anyway.”

Strangely nervous, Lorenz allows Claude to lead him through the lush, tangled garden to the edge of the lawn, where it drops away in a steep cliff bordered by a fence. There are two wooden chairs here, side by side. Claude waits until Lorenz is seated before sitting down himself, pitched forward in the chair with his laced fingers braced between his knees.

“So. My father is… was… the King of Almyra. He stepped down before I was old enough to remember it. I was… two, I think. He had married in secret, and wanted to wrap up as many loose ends as he could before passing the crown over to his brother.”

“You were born a prince, then.”

“Yes.” Claude glances at him swiftly, almost reproachful, but he doesn’t argue the point. “I don’t remember any of it. As far as I knew, until I was about ten, I was the child of perfectly normal parents. My mum wrote adventure stories and taught fencing classes at the gym down the street. My dad worked for a biometrics lab, developing tech and doing boring computer things I didn’t understand.

“Then, when I was ten, my parents sat me down and explained my heritage. They believed I should know the truth, so that when I came of age I could decide whether to announce myself as part of the royal family and claim a title at court, or continue as I was. A normal person. Someone with the same struggles and hardships and triumphs as anyone else.”

Despite himself, Lorenz is drawn in. Claude is a good storyteller. He talks with his hands and his eyes, expressive and magnetic even here, barefoot in the dirt, humble and unadorned. The gold hoops in his ears twinkle in the last dregs of dwindling sunlight as he sketches out his youth: his difficulties in school, his transition, the mistrust and ostracization he endured from his peers.

“I didn’t have it easy because of my birth—I never lied to you about that,” he says, already reading the question in Lorenz’s eyes. “For a while there I resented my parents for leaving it all behind. I daydreamed about appearing in court on my eighteenth birthday, declaring my intention to take the throne back for myself.” He laughs, and Lorenz can’t help but smile with him, charmed by the image of a preteen Claude determined to take charge of at least _one_ aspect of his tumultuous little life. “Of course, by the time I actually turned eighteen, I knew I didn’t want that. I had taken an interest in politics ever since my parents told me the truth, and always followed things on the news and at the dinner table as best I could… but leading an entire country wasn’t for me.”

“But you still wanted to pursue it,” Lorenz prompts quietly. “Politics.”

“I had… an inkling. I knew I didn’t want to go to school in Almyra—I wanted to live outside the country for longer than a month or two at a time, figure out how other systems worked. Which is how I ended up at Garreg Mach—and you know the rest of _that_ story.”

“Your parents seem to have come to terms with your decision.”

“Yes, surprisingly so. I’d like to think it’s due to my success in the polls so far, but to be honest I think I have _you_ to thank.”

Lorenz blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Claude reaches out hesitantly, and when Lorenz doesn’t pull away, he plants a firm hand on his knee and gives it a squeeze. “You’re intelligent and charming and politically savvy. And for all they know, we’ve been dating for five years. You’ve made an honest man out of me.” He grins, cocky, and not altogether deceitful. “I think they trust you to take care of me. Set me straight, if I stray.”

“That’s true regardless of the state of our relationship,” Lorenz sniffs. “You have always needed a firm guiding hand, and I am happy to provide.”

Claude smiles, but his eyes are far too serious. “Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why do you take it upon yourself to… guide me? Ever since school, you’ve been there. Nudging me forward when I falter. Questioning me when I push full steam ahead, if only to make me consider the wisest course of action.”

Lorenz drops his eyes to his lap, taken aback. “I… you are my friend, Claude. I simply want to see you succeed.”

Claude is silent a moment. Then he stands from his chair and comes to perch himself on the broad, flat arm of Lorenz’s chair. His nearness is overwhelming. The warmth of him radiates like a small sun contained in human flesh; he smells clean, like pine and cedar wood and soap. Lorenz wants to lean into him, to push his face into the welcome softness of his belly, but does not dare—hardly dares to even breathe.

“You are very important to me, Lorenz,” Claude says lowly, his voice painfully, irrefutably serious. “I hope you know that.”

Lorenz swallows and says nothing, choked by the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you. I should have told you years ago. It’s not that I didn’t trust you, only that I… well. There are a lot of good reasons I could construct, but the only real reason is that I was afraid.”

Lorenz huffs, nearly a scoff. “What had you to be afraid of?”

“I don’t really know. Altering your opinion of me, somehow? It sounds silly out loud, especially now. After everything we’ve been through together.” Still moving cautiously, Claude reaches down and folds their hands together, nestled in the bunched-up hoodie that still rests on Lorenz’s lap. “If there’s anything else you wish to know, just ask. I’ll answer it as straightforwardly as I can.”

“I… your father.” Lorenz grimaces and tightens his hold of Claude’s hand in lieu of an apology. “He was trying to get you to come back to court.”

“It was… a suggestion. A very persuasive suggestion.” Claude sighs. “He’s only echoing what Farid—my cousin—asked of me at the conference. But I don’t have any intention of taking him up on the offer, as generous as it is. Even if I lose the election.”

_This_, of all things, pulls Lorenz’s head up and around to look at him. It’s well and truly night, now—he can see the glimmering specks of fireflies dancing in the garden behind him, and the sky is shifting from blue-grey to navy black. But Claude is still clear as day, the center of his vision. “Even if you lose?”

“_Especially_ if I lose. It would feel… cowardly. Like a dog running back with its tail tucked between its legs. I don’t want to take the easy way out, you know?”

“You never have,” Lorenz murmurs. “Hell of a fallback, though.”

Claude chuckles, the crease of his smile almost lost to the dark. “Right? My father would like it, I think, but only out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia. He doesn’t regret giving up the throne, I know he doesn’t, but there are always those little thoughts that creep in, saying _what if_… If even I hear them now and again, he must hear them tenfold.”

“Your father is… no longer a biometrics technician, I would guess.”

“No, although that work did influence his current… occupation.” Claude sighs and drops his voice, leaning low as if to kiss his forehead. “He works closely with a branch of our national security. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Understood.”

“It’s a strange kind of thing. Everyone else seems to think more of it than I do. My family history, I mean. From a outside perspective I suppose it’s a big deal, but… apart from a brief stint as a teenager, the idea of ruling an entire country is terrifying to me.”

Lorenz watches the play of Claude’s fingers through his own a moment, lost in thought. Then he starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Claude asks, bemused.

“I just remembered—you said to me once, back when our little endeavor first began, that you weren’t _royalty material_. That you would rather earn your place than be born into it.” Lorenz lets his head loll back against the chair’s sloping back, arching a sardonic eyebrow. “You’ve done a very good job of running away from the truth of those words, I must say.”

“_Running away_?” Claude echoes. He looks like he isn’t sure whether to be upset or not, brow rumpled in a way that makes his eyes flash greener, lit by the last gold threads of daylight stitched along the horizon.

“If _I_ discovered I was royalty, I would stop at nothing to ensure I was the best ruler I could be. Even at the expense of my privacy, my anonymity.”

“You’ve already sacrificed that to the gossip rag dogs,” Claude reminds him. “Trust me, it’s ten times worse for the royal family.”

“I suppose so. I don’t entirely understand it, but I respect what you’re doing now. And for the record, Claude, I don’t think it would be a coward’s move. To return to Almyra and take up a position at court.”

“No?”

Lorenz considers his next words, considers their weight, and decides to say them anyway. He’s never minced words to save Claude’s pride—no sense in stopping now, even knowing the truth about him. “I never thought you were the type of person to care so much about what others thought of you that you would bend the shape of your entire future around it.”

Claude lifts his eyebrows. “Ouch.”

“Forgive me for my bluntness, but you have seen value in it before, even if it upset you.” Lorenz tightens his grip on Claude’s hand, preventing him from pulling away. “I mean what I say. My respect for you is indomitable. You have chosen a more difficult path for yourself, in some ways—easier in others. But I hope, if you do lose the elections, you’ll reconsider your cousin’s offer. You could do a lot of good, I think, that would far outweigh whatever foolishness the naysayers have in store.”

Claude sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping, and lifts Lorenz’s hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. “If you’d grown up in my head perhaps you’d think differently. But I appreciate your opinion, Lorenz, as always.”

“It is yours to take or leave, as you like.” Though he feels the curdle of warning in his gut, Lorenz follows the curve of Claude’s jaw with his palm, cradling his face. The shape of him fits like a glove, like a well-loved garment easing into place after shrinking slightly in the wash. Different, but not beyond repair. “Are there any other dramatic secrets I should be aware of, before they come crashing down around me, upsetting my entire worldview?”

Claude’s green eyes crease with laughter. “I don’t think so. That’s the main one, really.” He leans down and kisses him. Lorenz, against his better judgement, does not pull away. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you as long as I did,” Claude says against his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“You are forgiven,” Lorenz sighs. Too easy. Too quick, coaxed out of him by tenderness. “But let us agree to be honest with each other going forward, yes?”

“Agreed.” Claude leans back a little, examining his face. The sky is nearly dark, now, and his features aren’t so easy to make out. Lorenz wonders what he sees. “May I speak plainly?”

“I dearly wish you would, von Riegan.”

A little huff of laughter against his cheek. “I like kissing you, Lorenz.”

His face grows warm. “Flatterer.”

“What? It’s the truth.”

“A minor detail. I could have guessed it, from how you can hardly stand to keep your hands off m—mmf!” Another kiss smothers his words, more insistent than before. Lorenz reacts slowly, caught off guard, as Claude licks between his parted lips and kisses him deeply. Almost desperately. His blood rouses in his veins, sluggish, unprepared for such ardor, and he clutches Claude’s waist as his broad hand slides down his chest to his belt. “Claude…”

“Mmmm?” He hums against the angle of Lorenz’s jaw, moving to kiss his neck. “What is it?”

“Are you trying to distract me?” Lorenz demands, though his sternness is weakened somewhat by the grope of Claude’s hand along his inner thigh.

“Is it working?”

“We’re _outside_,” Lorenz whispers. “What if your parents—”

“They won’t.” Still, Claude withdraws his hand and his mouth a little, brushing it against the curve of Lorenz’s ear. “Will you let me distract you a little more, baby?”

“If you _promise_…”

“I swear. On my honor.” Claude hops off the arm of the chair and drops to his knees instead, teasing, but still with a fragile aura of chivalry as he places his hand to his breast. “Baba knows to give us space for me to explain things, and Mum isn’t home.”

Lorenz sighs and leans back in the chair, letting his thighs fall open a little wider. “Very well then. I shall try not to grow too attached to the power trip of having a prince on his knees for me.”

Claude buries his laughter into the flat of Lorenz’s stomach, and makes good on his apology.

><

In the dark of the bedroom some time later, Claude lays on his back and stares at the gauze canopy as if it holds the answers to his questions in its transparent folds. At his left side, Lorenz sleeps deeply. He’s on his side, one arm beneath the pillow, the other resting on the mattress with his knuckles curled loosely against Claude’s bicep. The tiniest thread of connection, and it’s all he can think about.

_How long have you loved him? _

His mother’s voice echoes in his head, stretched and distorted into an accusation. He grimaces and rubs his chest with his right hand, careful not to disturb the man beside him. His… lover? Accurate, for a given value of the word, but not in the way he wants. Not in the committed, earnest, adoring way. Not in the way that begins with a _I have feelings for you_ and ends with _marry me. _

He’s being a fool. He’d had the perfect opportunity, in the garden, to tell him the truth. The _entire_ truth. _I like kissing you_. Fucking idiot. Lorenz deserves better than his pathetic waffling.

Claude turns his head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes have adjusted to the dark room, and he can see the pale slope of Lorenz’s cheekbone, the smudge of his closed lashes, the relaxed bow of his mouth, still slightly swollen from sucking Claude off. Lorenz had attended to his toilette afterward, of course, as devoted to his evening skincare regimen as he is to the improvement of his father’s corporation, but the evidence lingers in small details. The beard burn blooming pink along his collarbone. The faint scratches Claude left behind on his inner thighs. The bruise of a particularly hungry kiss below his left nipple.

“I should’ve just told you,” Claude whispers, half-hoping the infinitesimal sound will stir him awake. Dreading it just as much. “Tomorrow morning. First thing. Okay?”

Lorenz sleeps on.

Behind Claude, unheard and unseen, his phone lights up on the nightstand with an incoming call and goes dark again, unanswered.

><><

The Blackbird Cafe is open 24/7. Currently it has only two patrons, one a college student who has been working on the same paper all night and hasn’t yet noticed the changing shift as six A.M. ticks around, bringing with it the first warm glow of daylight. The other sits in the corner with her back to the wall, dark hair artfully mussed, a ratty hoodie hiding her work clothes as she types industriously on her laptop. She arrived a few minutes ago, per the routine that’s developed over the last five days. Her client may be taking a vacation, but Shamir Nevrand is never off the clock.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust whatever security measures the Barbarossa-Daphnel household has in place. Certainly the Chief of International Intelligence would have only the best technology and personnel at his beck and call. But Shamir isn’t being paid to rest on her laurels and let other people’s systems do the heavy lifting, so when her phone lights up on the table with the name _H. V. Goneril_, she rides the little spike of adrenaline that accompanies her morning espresso and answers it promptly.

“Nevrand speaking.”

“Shamir, thank the goddess. I don’t know where the hell Claude is, but I couldn’t reach him.”

“At the house,” Shamir replies, deceptively toneless. She’s already got three different websites open on her VPN, scanning for whatever dreadful news has Hilda in such a tizzy. “What happened?”

“There’s been a news leak. Fucking _CelebriTea_ picked it up, apparently they have an _inside source_.”

“Inside sources are almost always bullshit. Tell me.”

Hilda hems and haws a moment; Shamir can practically see her twisting her long pink hair around one finger. “Soooo let’s say, hypothetically, that Claude had a… _paramour_ a few years back. Like, around the time he and Lorenz were supposed to be dating. And say that it was _super_ hush-hush, but somehow word got out about it and now everyone thinks Claude was _cheating_…”

One by one, Shamir closes her browser windows and opens a private, secure messaging service direct to the head of security in Fhirdiad. “Go on.”

“And say that person was, uh, the current King of Faerghus and now the entire goddamn continent knows about it. Or will in, like, an hour, once people wake up and see Claude and Dimitri’s names trending on Twitter.”

Shamir takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of five. “Get Claude or Lorenz on the phone, I don’t care which. And Ms. Ordelia. We need to discuss the ramifications and the fallout of this, ASAP.”

“Lysithea is already on it.”

“Good. You take care of their travel plans—we need to get them back to Derdriu _today_. I’m going to contact a few people to try and find the leak.”

“Yes ma’am!” Hilda’s voice has firmed a little at the prospect of being given a task to do rather than scrambling to do it all herself. “If they don’t answer I may need you to go to the house in person.”

“Let me know. I don’t have access to the property but I’ll batter the door down if I have to.”

“Maybe don’t do that,” Hilda squeaks, “but anything short of that.”

“Got it.” Shamir hangs up without a farewell and takes a quick glance around the cafe. Still mostly deserted, unaware of the tidal shift that has just occurred beneath her feet. She pulls up a new direct message and begins to type.

_Fraldarius, I need answers. Now. _


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz has enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things about this chapter. There is more unpleasantness with count g, including homophobia and verbal and some minor physical abuse. Also not quite spoilers for Ashen Wolves DLC: one of the characters is referenced in this chapter. Their function in this plot is related to a tidbit about their function in the DLC that is revealed fairly early on, which in itself is a bit of a spoiler. Hopefully that doesn't keep anyone from being able to read this! 
> 
> Further cw details are in the end notes if you want more of a heads up and don't mind minor chapter spoilers.

“Good afternoon everyone, welcome back to Derdriu. This emergency round of _fixing my client’s fuck-ups_ is now in session.”

The _ting-ting-ting_ of a fork against Lysithea’s glass rings like a high-pitched gong through Lorenz’s apartment. He winces, shoulders hiked around his ears. At his side, slumped wearily against the impeccable white of his sectional, Claude groans and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“It wasn’t _my_ fuck-up, Lys. Someone else leaked the info.”

“And you never thought I might need to know about past liaisons, Claude? I said to you, in the very beginning, _five years is a long time, you haven’t had any partners in that time? _And you said _not anything serious_, and I believed you!”

“It _wasn’t_ serious! We were fuckbuddies, okay? Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to blow off steam when every move you make is played out in newspapers and morning television talkshows for the public to gleefully dissect.”

Lorenz wishes he could sink into the couch and disappear, but he doesn’t have that luxury. In a matter of minutes, everything has shattered at his feet. He barely remembers the flight back to Derdriu, too consumed with emails and phone calls and trying to hide his face from anyone who might recognize him. Of course, the paparazzi were out in force—they’d scarcely left the plane before they were all but swarmed, at the mercy of Shamir and belated airport security just to get to their car.

They have yet to make an official statement. That’s why they’re here, gathered once again in his penthouse flat, just as they’ve been so many times before; only now, instead of working to construct a story from the ground up, they’re trying to keep it from collapsing into rubble.

“I’ve been through every scrap of footage personally,” comes the voice of the man on the video call. Felix Fraldarius, recently stepped into his father’s shoes as Dimitri’s head of security in Fhirdiad. He looks exhausted, washed bone-white by the webcam, one hand tapping crisply around the rim of his coffee mug as he offers up his own intel. “I spoke at length to the agents who made up His Highness’ security detail at the time. All of them are accounted for. The leak was not on our side of things.”

“How many people knew, exactly?” Lorenz asks wearily. He’s given up entertaining the spark of jealousy that had been brewing him, back when he still had the range for such complex emotions. Now he just feels hollowed out, a skein of wool stretched to its utmost by the unfeeling spindle.

“On his personal security detail, only three. Dedue Molinaro, Cassandra Rubens, and myself. Of his friends, Sylvain and Ingrid were aware, but Dimitri has vouched for them personally.”

“And you believe him?” Hilda asks. “No offense, but Sylvain isn’t exactly known for being subtle.”

“There is no one more aware of that fact than I, Miss Goneril, and I assure you, we were all quite painfully aware of the ramifications of such personal details making their way to the public. If there was a slip, it was not on our end. Perhaps a witness of a private dinner date at some point in the past, or something of that nature. What baffles me is that they waited so long to come forward.”

Lorenz feels, rather than sees, Claude go stiff as a newmade corpse. When he turns to look at him, Claude’s face tells the whole story.

“Claude, what is it?”

“A… a few months ago, Dimitri came to visit me. Right after the accident.”

“The _hit_,” Hilda mutters, correcting him, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.

“Only Dedue was with him. He was in street clothes, he came at night… it was all very proper and hush-hush.”

“But…?” Felix prompts flatly.

Claude spares Lorenz a glance. His mouth twists unhappily. Guiltily? “This was right around the time we were being… observed pretty closely. The man in question has been arrested, but if he saw something and chased it down…”

Lorenz abruptly feels sick to his stomach. The private investigator. Reporting back to his father everything he saw and heard. And Count Gloucester was nothing if not resourceful—if he had even the slightest inkling of a weakness he could exploit, he would stop at nothing to uncover it. Would spare no expense if it meant destroying the man he had to thank for ‘corrupting’ his only heir.

_Don’t forget you’re a Gloucester, after everything. _

“So that’s the leak,” Lysithea sighs. “Unfortunate.”

“What? Some ratty, creepy jerkoff who was snooping around Claude’s house one night and got lucky?” Hilda’s perfectly pink lips curl into a bulldog’s snarl. “That’s not a source, that’s a baseless rumor. I say we deny it. It’s our word against his, and he’s the one in jail.”

“He’s not the one who leaked it,” Lorenz hears himself say, toneless and cold. “How could he, from his cell? No, it was his employer, who still remains at large.”

“Lorenz—”

“We all know the truth.” Lorenz closes his eyes. “This is my fault. If I had returned to Derdriu immediately after the arrest, confronted my father on my own—”

“There’s no guarantee that would have dissuaded him,” Lysithea interrupts, surprisingly gentle for the first time. “For all we know he could have already sold the information to the highest bidder. The point is moot, anyway. What we really need to focus on right now is reacting.”

“I’ve been instructed to tell you that whatever you decide, Dimitri will go along with,” Felix offers. “It’s not right, or fair, but the media has placed the onus of responsibility on von Riegan’s shoulders. Ultimately it’s your decision how to deal with it.”

“I still say we deny it,” Hilda says staunchly.

“And if they have hard evidence?” Claude shoots back. “What then?” He stands abruptly, brushing off Hilda’s reassuring hand, and paces back and forth a few times, a restless tiger in a too-small cage. “To hell with it. No more lies.”

“What…?”

“We’ve dug ourselves too deep, and now we’re paying the price. This was always a gamble. It seems we’ve bid too high. I’ve built my campaign on a platform of honestly and integrity. Maybe it’s time I actually followed through.”

“Claude,” Lysithea says firmly, “with all due respect, I will not have you ruining months of hard work for the sake of one idiot’s lucky swing. Not to mention, you aren’t technically my client. Lorenz is.”

All eyes in the room turn to Lorenz. It takes conscious effort not to flinch. Instead he folds his arms over his chest and tightens his jaw, steeling himself to look Claude in the eye. He’s restless, unhappy, hair still mussed and clothes rumpled from travel. His eyes flash like twin flames in his face, bright and angry. Guilt crawls up Lorenz’s throat like bitter ink.

“Lysithea is right,” he says, hardly sounding like himself. Each word rasps against his windpipe like sandpaper, and he reaches for the glass of water sitting half-empty on the coffee table. “Let us not be hasty.”

“We’ve waited long enough,” Claude growls, but he subsides, forcibly calming his own frantic energy down to a simmer. “Fine. What do you recommend, then?”

“There are a few options,” Lysithea says primly. “We could deny it outright, but I agree that it is a dangerous proposition. If more evidence comes forward, it won’t look good, even if we _can_ disprove it. Another option is… a distraction.”

“Meaning…?”

“Give the gossip rags something else to talk about. Something bigger than an old, stale fling.”

Claude’s lips thin. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Well… if you’ve been dating for five years,” Lysithea says, “it stands to reason that you’d be talking about marriage, don’t you think?”

Lorenz barks a laugh. He can’t even look at Claude’s face, too afraid of what he’ll see. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re already toeing the line of believability as it is, and now you want to add a proposal to the mix?”

“It would certainly get everyone’s attention, and assure them that your relationship is solid,” Lysithea says tartly, miffed at being written off so quickly.

“And get us accused of pulling a publicity stunt! Which we are!”

“And so what?” Hilda cuts in smoothly, with her honey-sweet voice—the one she uses when she wants something from you. “It’s the best sort of love story, isn’t it? Dramatic, angsty…”

Lorenz sighs. “Contrary to popular belief, my life is not a reality show, Hilda.”

“Of course it isn’t, sweetie. But we have to _present_ it as one. It’s about audience engagement. It doesn’t matter if they _believe it_ so long as they’re invested in the story.”

“Enough,” Claude says suddenly. “I’d like some time alone with Lorenz to discuss this, please.”

“But I can’t help you if I’m not in the _room_—”

“Lys. This isn’t about our public relations for once, okay?” He rubs the crease developing between his brows, a match for the permanent one his father wears like the shadow of a crown. “Just. Stay here a minute.”

He motions with one hand and Lorenz follows, silent, all the anger in his body pooling to the pit of his stomach like a well of bubbling poison. Claude leads him to his own office, a place he’s seen a great deal less of lately. The orchid on the desk is drooping in its bed of moss, and there’s a bit of a stale smell in the air from being closed up. Unfamiliar territory. Lorenz folds his arms across his chest protectively and decides to move on the offensive.

“Claude, I’m sorry about all of this,” he says, eyes pinned to the bookshelves behind Claude’s head. “This past week was a mistake. I shouldn’t have let myself be lulled into a false sense of security—”

“Lorenz, you couldn’t have known.”

“—and now we are suffering for my complacency. _You_ are suffering.”

“Lorenz.” Claude catches his hand and brings it toward him, trying to soothe the restless energy that crackles under his skin like heat lightning. “If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I was indiscreet a few years ago, and now I’m paying for it.”

He looks so grave. So defeated. In burns someplace right at the core of Lorenz’s chest, like his heart has been mashed to cinders. “I would hardly call your relationship with Dimitri _indiscreet_.”

“No?”

“Why shouldn’t you be able to… to have those kinds of relationships? Just because you’re at the center of so much media scrutiny doesn’t absolve you from having human desires.”

“_Human desires_,” Claude echoes, lips quirking. “You’re right, of course. But it certainly felt indiscreet at the time.” He hesitates, chewing his next words over in his mouth like he’s uncertain of the flavor. “It was never more than sex, you know.”

Lorenz coughs awkwardly. “I… yes, so you’ve made clear.”

“I’m just saying, it wasn’t a _relationship_. It was just… convenient.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“All right.”

Claude sounds suspiciously calm. When Lorenz chances another look at his (dear, tired, handsome) face, his expression is impossible to read. Lorenz clears his throat. “You wanted to discuss this scheme of Lysithea’s?”

“Ah. Yeah. I, um, I’m not inherently opposed, I guess; but my gut is telling me this isn’t the right move.”

Lorenz blows out a breath of fervent relief. “We are in agreement on that.”

“Good.” Claude pulls a pen off the cup on the desk and starts fiddling with it, a nervous tic as he visibly gathers his thoughts around himself like a cloak. “It’s going to be bad enough, splitting up after everything, I don’t want to add a fake engagement to the mix.”

Lorenz shuts his eyes briefly. What a rude awakening this day has been. “We should probably discuss that, don’t you think? While we’re here?”

“Discuss…?”

“The split. Once you’ve been elected.”

“Ha! Such confidence.”

“I have every confidence in you, Claude, as you well know,” Lorenz says, perhaps more sharply than warranted. “Regardless, losing will have less impact on your private life. The issue of ‘breaking up’ will be more difficult when you’re elected.”

“Yeah.” Claude looks even more exhausted. He drops into Lorenz’s desk chair and tips his head against the back to look at the ceiling. “I think we can just, y’know, ease off on public appearances together, and if anyone questions it we say we’ve parted amicably or something. That the media rigmarole was too much strain. Which, frankly, it is.”

Lorenz hums a toneless agreement. “And in the meantime, what are we to do about… all of this?”

“I still think we should tell the truth,” Claude says, already lifting a hand to stop him, “_but_, I can see you don’t want that, so we won’t. Whatever decision we make, we make it together.”

“Thank you, Claude.” Mollified, Lorenz props his hip against the desk and watches the wavy coil of dark hair falling over Claude’s temple, just shy of meeting his eyes. “Perhaps we’re thinking too hard about this. Couples often take breaks, do they not? Try other things, meet other people? We can say that your… _fling_… was during a break.”

“Not a bad idea, Gloucester.” Claude flips the pen in his hand and doesn’t stick the landing, sending it flying. Lorenz snatches it out of the air before it can hit his face. “Er, sorry.”

“No harm done.”

“I should let Dima know so we can coordinate if need be. Fuck, I should call him.”

Lorenz swallows back the foolish, instinctive pill of jealousy stuck in his throat. “Right. I’ll step out. Feel free to use the office as long as you need.”

Claude looks like he’s going to say something, or protest, but Lorenz suddenly can’t bear to be in the same room. He pushes a tight, polite smile onto his face and slips out, shutting the door behind him.

Hilda is in the kitchen, pouring water; Lysithea sits perched on the edge of the couch, talking to Felix in quiet tones. Lorenz skirts the living room and goes to join Hilda at the counter.

“Well?”

“We’re not announcing any engagement. We’ll say we were taking a break at that time, and that nothing that happened between Claude and Dimitri was inappropriate or… cheating.”

Hilda’s lips thin, but she nods. “We can work with that.”

“Is Felix still on the line?”

“They’re discussing how they should handle things on the Faerghus side.” Hilda’s eyes slide longingly over the liquor cabinet and away against with a little unconscious shake of her head. “You should go let them know what you’ve decided.”

Lorenz nods, but stays where he is. “Claude is talking to Dimitri now.”

Hilda clears her throat. “Gotcha.”

He feels a prickle of irritation at those two unadorned syllables, like she knows something he doesn’t. He shrugs against the confines of his plane-rumpled shirt and jacket. “I’m going to talk to Lys.”

“Take her a glass, will you? I’m not sure she’s stopped running since the article dropped.”

Lorenz takes one of the cups and drifts into the living area, feeling the insistent prickle of Hilda’s eyes on the back of his neck. He’s only halfway to the coffee table when the elevator dings unexpectedly. Lysithea immediately cuts herself off, looking back over her shoulder—but it’s only Shamir, black-clad and fresh-pressed as ever, with an espresso’s bitterness to match as she strides into the room without removing her coat.

“Lorenz,” she barks, “we need to talk.”

“I—all right.” Lorenz glances to Lysithea, the open laptop still wearing Felix’s face. “Should we… alone?”

“No, it’s best that you all hear it. Ah, Fraldarius, you’re present as well. That’s good.”

Lorenz waffles a bit with his water glasses before putting them both down on the coffee table, dry throat forgotten. “Is it something to do with the article?”

“Yes. And more than that: your stalker. The name on his file was a pseudonym. Apparently the police already had a handful of warrants out for his arrest under various others.” Shamir pulls a bulky file from her briefcase and hands it over. When Lorenz fails to react appropriately, she huffs and shoves them at Lysithea instead. “His real name is Balthus von Albrecht, and he’s been in Count Gloucester’s employ for some time.”

Lorenz frowns, trying to recall ever hearing the name before. “How long is _some time_?”

“Records indicate since around the time Claude announced his bid for the Roundtable.” Shamir’s eyes flit to the open laptop where Felix is listening intently. “I’ll forward you the file, Fraldarius. Your people can decide what to do with it. Some of the warrants are Faerghan in origin. I think, considering the circumstances, you could request custody.”

Felix says something to that, but Lorenz isn’t listening. He puts his hand to the back of the couch to combat the sudden wave of vertigo sweeping over him. Claude had announced his bid for the Roundtable well over a year ago—had his father been spying on him that entire time? No wonder he’d known their relationship was a ruse. He’d had eyes on Claude from the very beginning.

_And what of myself? _A chill sweeps over him and he can’t help looking around, as if any hidden cameras placed by his father could be discerned by the naked eye. Technically, this penthouse was owned by his father. Technically, Lorenz’s job was entirely at the mercy of Arthur Hellman Gloucester. _Just as I am. Just as I always have been, and always will be. _

He feels sick to his stomach. A headache pulses behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the confines of his skull—but stronger than that is the anger. It seeps up from the pit of his stomach, bleaching his bones from the inside until his hands are shaking and he feels like if he opens his mouth, a white-hot flame will spout out, obliterating everything in its path.

_No more of this. No more. _

“Lorenz? Where are you going?”

“Out,” Lorenz snaps, hardly registering Lysithea’s voice. He’s still in the clothes he put on that morning, in a rush in the early blue of Claude’s bedroom, but he doesn’t bother going to change, or shower, or do anything apart from grabbing his coat and wallet and keys. The elevator is still at the top floor. He gets in without turning back and punches the button for the parking garage.

><

Once upon a time, the Gloucester family owned several properties across Fódlan and beyond, but by the time Lorenz was born, only two remained: the family estate in Gloucestershire, and the townhome in the political district. Arthur Hellman Gloucester’s father had nearly ruined the family with gambling debts, and his son spent most of his youth rebuilding the family fortune even as he scrabbled tooth and claw to hold his seat at the Roundtable.

When Judith Daphnel von Riegan—bearing her mother’s maiden name—passed her first and only reform bill destroying the link between blood and political power, the Gloucestershire seat was won by a better speaker and prettier face than Count Gloucester, and he turned his focus entirely to business instead. The family coffers tripled over the next twenty years, but the bare bones of the townhouse have remained the same: stately Ionic columns framing an intimidating front door, tall narrow windows, and a whitewashed brick facade that seems to loom over the street below, threatening and immovable.

As Lorenz gets out of the car and climbs the front steps, it fails to leave its usual impression. The front door opens for his key flawlessly, and he withholds a sigh of relief as he brushes past the butler, heels clicking on the marble floor and phone in hand. Half of him had been expecting to find the locks changed, and the staff turned against him. But he moves through the entry hall and up the grand staircase unmolested—in fact, at the top of the stairs, one of the maids quietly tells him his father is in his office, and dares to pass him a faint smile of approval. He doesn’t know her name—his father’s staff rotates almost as frequently as the changing seasons, whenever he grows bored of the current models—but even that small nod bolsters his fractious confidence, and he holds it close like a good-luck charm as he puts his hand to the door of his father’s office and pushes inward.

Stepping inside is like entering a time capsule. His father has spent most of his time here since Lorenz was very small—too small to reach the door knob but tall enough to peer through the keyhole to spy on stakeholder meetings and clandestine rendezvous alike. Two tall windows frame the massive oak desk, looking out over Derdriu harbor, and the wall between them is graced with an enormous oil portrait of his father, dressed in the formal court regalia of his younger days.

The Count himself sits behind the desk like a king on his throne, a cigar smoking in one hand. A flicker of surprise mars his puggish face before settling again, and he stands as Lorenz moves toward him with intent, smudging the cherry out on the ashtray at his elbow.

“My son. To what do I owe the great esteem of—”

“You know exactly why I’m here.” Lorenz marches up to his desk and stops with the toes of his shoes practically brushing the polished wood, arms folded behind him as precisely as a military officer. “I want answers.”

With an oil smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, Count Gloucester remains standing—too proud to be any lower than his son than nature will allow. “Of course I am happy to answer whatever questions you have, Lorenz, but I’m afraid you will have to ask them for me to be of any help.”

“Tell me about Balthus von Albrecht.”

There is a delicate pause. “Ah.”

“You hired him to spy on Claude. Why?”

It’s like a switch has been flipped behind that thinning purple coif. Count Gloucester’s oily smile drops from his face and he sits down again, cigar poised between thumb and forefinger like a dart ready to strike. “I found it highly suspicious that Duke Riegan had suddenly produced an heir, in his waning years after stepping down from the Roundtable, particularly one intending to take his place. I wanted to discover whether the blood relation was legitimate.”

“Why bother, if blood no longer had any bearing on seat inheritance?”

The Count laughed, a grating, unkind sound. “You are nearly as shortsighted as that plaything of yours. The laws governing election procedures are very strict, boy. If it was discovered that this supposed _heir_ was not related to Duke Riegan after all, that he had no ties to those lands and that family whatsoever, it would be a great scandal. I had hopes of leveraging it against him in court, but alas, the boy was of true Riegan stock.” His eyes glint like sharp points of flint. “Among others.”

Dread coalesces in Lorenz’s stomach. “What do you mean.”

“I think you know very well what I mean. You were just in his homeland, were you not? Tell me, is his father as boorish and idiotic as I have always heard?”

For a moment Lorenz sees red. He comes very close to taking the heavy metal ashtray and smashing something with it—but at the last moment a wave of eerie calm comes over him and he recalls that anger is what his father wants. To get a rise out of him, to break him. To prove once again that he is superior. So Lorenz swallows back white-hot indignation and says, calmly, “I found him quite a gentleman, in fact. Perhaps your little rat was not quite so thorough as you hoped.”

Count Gloucester’s smug expression dissolves into a sneer. “Your meddling has well and truly seen to that. Do you know how much money I’m forking over to have him released from custody?”

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” Lorenz says, hoping his bluff isn’t entirely off base. He lifts his free hand as if to examine his flawless manicure. “He’s changing hands as we speak. The King of Faerghus has rather taken a liking to him.”

His father flinches in his chair, another brick in his foundation forcibly torn away. “_What_.”

“You played with fire and you got burned.” Lorenz shakes his head. “You always fancied yourself untouchable nobility; but that’s the farthest thing from the truth. Your title is meaningless, your fortune built on the backs of others—”

“Do not talk down to me, boy!” Gloucester snaps. “That fortune will be yours when I’m gone, if you would just learn to keep your mouth shut and _behave_.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’ve poked your nose into the affairs of royalty, and now you must pay the price.”

In a sudden flurry of movement, Count Gloucester springs from his seat and grabs the phone off its cradle, punching in numbers too quickly for Lorenz to keep track of. “Where is Albrecht?” he snaps as soon as the other end picks up. The response is too muffled to hear, but the mottled red that creeps up his face tells the whole story. “YOU IMBECILES,” he shouts, and devolves into incoherent shouting interspersed liberally with swear words.

Lorenz doesn’t move, pinned in place like a lightning-struck tree, singed and smoking in the wake of thunder. He fears if he tries, he’ll find himself at the business end of a letter-opener—though he has no doubt, in this moment, that his father carries far more dangerous objects on his person.

Count Gloucester slams the receiver down abruptly, shoulders heaving. The reddish hue has not left his face, and is beginning to turn a putrid purple. Faintly alarmed, Lorenz takes a step toward him. “Father—”

“_You_.” Gloucester bares his teeth, looking more like a rabid dog than a man, and lurches around the end of the desk. “You meddler, you poisoner, you streak of filth on the family name!” Unwieldy with rage, he reaches for Lorenz and manages to get hold of the front of his shirt to shake him. “_You are not my son!_”

Gloucester _shoves_ with all his might, but his grip is weak and Lorenz has his feet under him now. He manages to keep his balance as he leaps back, just barely avoiding the meaty fist clumsily aimed his way. His father stumbles under his own momentum, all the color draining from his face.

“Father, stop this,” Lorenz begs, too afraid to come near but unable to leave him alone in such a state. “You’re making yourself ill.”

Gloucester’s lips curl as if to spit, but instead his hand paws fruitlessly at the desk’s edge. He wavers a moment, gray-faced—then pitches forward and collapses onto the ground.

Lorenz drops his phone and runs to his side, turning him over with no small amount of effort. He shoves two fingers against his father’s jowls, trembling, and nearly weeps to find a thready pulse. “You idiot,” he whispers. “You stupid, stupid fool.”

With trembling hands, he pushes himself to his feet and scoops up his phone. The recording app he’d turned on before entering the office is still running. He hits _stop_ and pulls up the keypad to call for an ambulance.

><><

“Mr. Gloucester.”

Lorenz looks up from the files in his lap, blinking away the fog of exhaustion. The nurse in front of him is vaguely familiar, but he can’t focus on their nametag long enough to make a polite greeting, so he just looks at them and waits for the news to be delivered.

“Your father is awake. You may visit him, but please do not agitate his nerves. He’s in a very delicate state, and we’ll need to keep him under close observation here for the next eight to twelve hours.”

“I understand.” Lorenz closes the file folder and stands. Across the hall, the lawyer from Gloucester Tech also stands and straightens her pinstripe suit jacket. “Could I have a few minutes alone with him?”

“Of course. Just ring the nurse’s station if you require anything.”

Lorenz steels himself and enters the room, the lawyer on his heels. His father lies in bed, pale and wrinkled, gray like an old sock. He looks vaguely put out by his circumstances, and not entire lucid—his watery eyes traverse the room, window to Lorenz to door and back again, like he’s plotting a strategic retreat in the confines of his own mind. Lorenz doesn’t bother pulling up a seat.

“Father. There are things we must discuss.”

After a pause, in which his father seems to visibly be gathering his thoughts, Gloucester turns toward him with a sour expression. “Of course,” he wheezes, “you wait until I’m entirely at your mercy. Have it out, then. What more can you possibly take from me?”

Lorenz glances behind him. Receiving a nod, he pulls the freshly made-up document from its folder and lays them both on the bedside table. “I need you to sign this. It’s a form that will legally transfer all properties, funds, and holdings of Gloucester Technologies to my name in the event that you are too ill or infirm to perform your duties as CEO.”

Gloucester wheezes a disbelieving guffaw. “And what makes you think I’ll do that, boy?”

Lorenz disguises the tremble of his hand as he reaches for the pen waiting in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I don’t have to do this, Father. This is a courtesy. Ms. Adelis here will serve as witness to your infirmity and sign on your behalf, but I wanted to offer you the dignity of making the decision yourself.”

“The _dignity_. Pah! This is illegal! I will not stand for such usurpations—”

“Father,” Lorenz snaps, cutting his rambling off at the pass. He plunks the pen down decisively. “Sign. If you do not, I have recorded proof that you hired Albrecht’s services for the express purposes of spying on and undermining the campaign of one Claude von Riegan, including the illegal bartering and selling of information, for your own gain.”

“A… recording…? Ha! Weak evidence at best!” Gloucester pants, face reddening despite the sedatives being pumped into his system. “You cannot—you must not—”

“If you overtax yourself,” Lorenz says calmly, “I will have to call the nurse and have you put under again, and neither of us wants that. Now answer me. Will you sign? Or would you prefer to drag this out over several years of lawsuits and possible fines and jail time?”

Gloucester’s mouth works with fury, but at last his rage subsides and he lifts an imperious hand. “The pen.”

Inwardly, Lorenz breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Your cooperation will be rewar—”

“Shut up,” Gloucester snaps. Though his hand trembles, fingers turned to claws around the heavy weight of the pen, he signs his name in the required places, followed by Lorenz’s and the lawyer’s own initials as witnesses. When he’s finished, he casts the pen aside; it rolls across the surface of the table and lands point-first on the tile floor, breaking into two distinct pieces.

Lorenz sets his jaw. “Thank you.”

Gloucester snorts, his rage subsiding and giving way to scornful satisfaction. “Well, color me surprised. You’re a Gloucester after all.”

Lorenz pauses in the midst of handing the forms over to the lawyer. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look at you!” he wheezes, a dried-out husk of a man still refusing to shed the snakeskin of his own pride even as it strangles him to death. “Leveraging your own father out of his power and fortune. I’m almost impressed, boy. You’ve exceeded my every expectation, even if you are a fa—”

“That’s quite enough.” Lorenz steps away from the bedside and turns to the lawyer. “Is that all you require?”

“Yes, sir. Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Adalis, it’s greatly appreciated.”

Though it takes all his strength, Lorenz turns his back on the man in the bed and shepherds her to the door. He’s scarcely bade her farewell in hall before his knees threaten to collapse. He makes it to a chair and slumps down upon it, head in his hands.

_You’re a Gloucester after all. _

He has a feeling he’ll be having nightmares about those words for years to come.

“Lorenz?”

He’s not sure how much time has passed—a minute? An hour? A lifetime?—but when he looks up and sees Claude standing there, illuminated harshly by the stark fluorescent glow of the overhead lights, Lorenz is certain he’s looking at a daydream. He blinks a few times, too dry-mouthed to speak.

“Hey.” Claude moves nearer, each footstep firm and grounded on the linoleum. He’s still wearing the clothes he’d put on that morning (yesterday?). Has time really passed so quickly? “I came as soon as I heard. Are you all right?”

Lorenz watches him extend his hand and reaches for it belatedly, shocked at the rough, warm feeling of his steady grip. “What time is it?”

“A little past six in the evening.” Claude’s other hand hovers, tentative, as if asking for permission. Lorenz isn’t sure what to do or say—but Claude lowers his hand to his hair anyway, petting his fingers through the short side in a soothing, primal rhythm. Lorenz folds forward and presses his face against his stomach. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” Claude asks again, patient as anything.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Lorenz takes a deep, fortifying breath, dragging the scent of pine and cinnamon into his lungs, and sits up straight. “He had a heart attack right in front of me. It—it was my fault—”

“Hush. It wasn’t your fault, Lorenz; bodies fail sometimes, and it isn’t anyone’s fault.” _Except his own_ goes unspoken. “He’s sleeping now?”

“I believe so.” He has vague memories of a nurse going in after he and the lawyer had left, likely responding to his father’s erratic vitals. “He’ll be here for a while, I think. In the meantime, I…” He pauses, gathering his sporadic thoughts. His hand is still in Claude’s, safe and secure. “I’ve taken control of the company, and seen to it that he won’t be any more trouble for you.”

“Lorenz…”

“Don’t thank me, please. It was the least I could do after the wreckage he caused.” His voice shakes a little. Despite the iron conviction filling in his ribs like plate armor, he feels ready to fly apart into a thousand pieces, as if the slightest word could grab the knife in his chest and push it in to the hilt. “This isn’t how I’d pictured getting everything I wanted.”

“Life has a way of surprising us sometimes.” Claude squeezes his hand reassuringly and lowers himself to the next chair over. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat, take your mind off it?”

Eating sounds like an impossible feat right now, even though he knows he should. Slowly he shakes his head and presses his shoulder into Claude’s just to feel the warmth. “I want to go home,” he whispers. “And I don’t want anyone else to be there asking me questions.”

“That sounds doable.” Despite his words, Claude doesn’t stand again, just reaches his arm across Lorenz’s shoulders and pulls him in close. Lorenz knows he shouldn’t be enjoying it, but he can’t help it—Claude is so solid and strong, like dry land after being tossed about in a cold, tempestuous sea. The comfort reaches into the cracks of his armor and grips his bruised heart, and Lorenz buries his face in Claude’s neck and finally lets himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW cont'd: there is a scene that takes place in a hospital (none of our beloved characters are hurt).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz allows himself a little indulgence, as a treat. Lysithea is at her limit. Claude makes a discovery.

Monsoon season has come to the Leicester coast.

Rain scours the city day in and day out, grinding Derdriu to a snail’s pace beneath its unforgiving heel. The streets have become shallow rivers, gutters turned to torrents, the sun barely visibly behind the steel grey clouds the hang full and heavy overhead. The ocean, normally docile in the protective arms of Derdriu Harbor, has come a wild beast. It lashes out against the deserted piers, snarling, hungry; but the citizens of Derdriu know better, and have retreated to higher ground as best they can.

High above it all in his crystal palace, Lorenz stands and looks out the window without seeing as he listens to the woman on the other end of the phone.

“Are you _sure_, Lorenz? This is insane, what you’re asking for.”

“I’m aware it is… unorthodox.” He fiddles with a stray pen cap in the depths of his trouser pocket, mindlessly spinning it over and over through his fingers. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of his new office, the skyline is obscured by the lashing rain; water beads up on the glass and runs together until the vista looks more like an oil painting than real life. “I have my reasons.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss the details before I commit to this,” Lysithea says. Deceptively calm in the wake of her initial outburst, disapproval still lingers in her voice like a current of water shuddering beneath a thin veil of oil. “Walk me through your thought process.”

“It’s really quite simple.” Lorenz watches as his breath fogs the glass, obscuring his reflection. “Claude’s rankings have dropped alarmingly. Our little story about a _break_ was insufficient to quell the shock factor.”

“There’s still two weeks before elections. And rankings don’t always accurately reflect—”

“No more platitudes, Lysithea. Forgive me, but I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I’ve made my decision. I’ll be going forward with or without your help—but I admit that having you at my back would be a great comfort to me.”

She sighs, and it crackles softly through the speaker like cotton over steel wool. “All right. I’m sorry. Go on.”

The fog has faded from the glass, but he cannot bear to see his own reflection now. Lorenz shuts his eyes. “The farce must come to an end. It has served the intended purpose. Claude sacrificed everything to aid me, to protect me from my father and from the public’s bad opinion. Now it’s my turn to do the same for him.”

“But to come forward with the truth, without Claude’s input…”

“It won’t entirely be the truth.” Lorenz pulls the cap from his pocket and watches the gleam of burnished metal reflect the cold gray sky. It’s half of the pen that his father had used to sign the papers in the hospital a month ago. The other half is still missing, likely still under the hospital bed, rolled away to hide in a corner, undiscovered. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. I am the villain of this story, Lysithea.”

“Lorenz…”

“It was me, using him, the entire time. I convinced him to protect me. I asked him to put his reputation on the line, his political standing, his entire career, for me. And now that I have no more need of him, I will drop him. Publicly.” He stops to catch his breath in silence, feeling strangely winded. Then rebuilds himself, brick by brick, until he can finish the thought with fortitude. “You know how this works, Lysithea. Everyone loves a martyr.”

Lysithea is quiet a moment, perhaps waiting for him to soliloquize further; but the silence only stretches out, unabated, a backdrop to the relentless pounding of rain against the glass. Suspended against the faded city tapestry, Lorenz concentrates on breathing.

The floor has been unraveling beneath his feet for some time. His new position thrust him full speed ahead into his father’s business—the only legacy he ever truly wanted. By circumstance, not by choice, he’s barely seen Claude at all in the last few weeks. A blessing in disguise. It’s given him space to consider, to plot his course of action. Between early morning conference calls with Brigid or Dagda, and meetings spent winning over his new executive team, and shuffling through promotions and demotions with HR, and catching a few hours of sleep on his couch before showering and changing and forging his way to the office to do it all over again, he has been plotting. Figuring out a way forward.

Thanks to his father’s signature and the presence of a lawyer, the change of power at Gloucester Tech has gone over over largely without a hitch. It helps, he has found, to carry a little piece of Claude with him at all times; not a physical memento, but a memory. A sliver of golden light. The touch of his hand, the bright white of his smile. His deep, rusty, rumbly laugh in the early morning. It’s like a good luck charm, something to infuse his steps with purpose, to coat his words with steel.

Even now, Claude carries him through the storm. Lorenz owes him more than he’ll ever be able to repay, but at least this will be a start.

“I want to do it soon,” he says. “This coming Monday I’m doing a press conference about some of the new changes I’ll be implementing at Gloucester Tech. It’s the perfect opportunity to spin this story in my favor.”

“In Claude’s favor, you mean,” Lysithea grumbles. “All right. Give me the rest of today to come up with something. I’ll forward you a drafted paragraph tomorrow and you can tell me whether it will serve.”

“Thank you, Lysithea.” Lorenz clears his throat. “On a slightly related note… I know our contract will soon expire, but I was hoping you would be open to staying on in a more permanent fashion.”

Lyisthea hums, and it’s almost a laugh. “We’ll see how this press conference goes, won’t we?”

He doesn’t blame her for hanging up on him.

Lorenz checks his watch as he moves back to his desk. _Seven o’clock already. _He sighs and looks around. If his office as VP of Marketing had been nice, this suite is positively reeking with power and influence. He stripped most of his father’s idea of _decor_ out and replaced it with clean minimalism and spots of tasteful greenery, but the heavy pall of Count Gloucester’s tenure still hangs in the air in small ways. At least the extravagant purple bouquet on his desk, courtesy of Ferdinand, adds some frivolous good cheer to the space. Without it the office is practically a tomb.

His administrative assistant has already gone home for the evening, though not without leaving him a sticky note on his door reminding him to pick up dinner on the way home. He makes a note in his phone to have flowers sent to her desk and locks the door behind him on the way out.

In the parking garage, he meets his driver—another new addition to his routine since becoming CEO—and tries to will himself to melt into the leather seats and disappear. The prospect of returning to his empty apartment is suddenly repugnant to him, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He feels like a mechanical creature wound up and set loose with no nest to return to, skittering aimlessly on legs that are slowly starting to rust and seize up. Running on caffeine and catnaps, waiting for the brittle floor to break beneath his weight.

Traffic moves painfully slow. He can barely hear the radio over the drumming rain. Halfway to downtown, their progress grinds to a halt as emergency response vehicles shriek by, lights and sirens blaring. He tips his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes against the flashing red and blue. He tastes wet asphalt on the back of his tongue, feels the phantom ache of bruises crawling up his right side.

“Change of plans,” he says suddenly, leaning forward to speak through the open privacy window. “Take me to the Riegan townhouse, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The nice part about having a personal driver, he’s found, is that they don’t ask questions. His own mind is asking plenty of its own, but he ignores them all, scrolling through his text messages. The most recent one from Claude was sent last week, late Thursday night. _Sorry to cancel last minute, something came up. Reschedule? _

Lorenz had never responded. To be honest, he’d been thankful at the time for the reprieve. He barely has two minutes of free time to string together these days, let alone making enough time to entertain the idea of a dinner date. They’re supposed to be putting themselves out there for the paps, appearing in public as the happy, unbothered couple; but life has other plans.

So, for that matter, does Lorenz. The less he sees of Claude now the better.

_Then what are you doing right now? _prods the voice in his head that sounds upsettingly like Hilda.

He brushes aside the insistent query and scrolls back further, to casual _how are you_s and _dinner in tonight?_s and _sure I can proofread that_s. A last hurrah, perhaps. One final moment of weakness before he slams the doors shut on this fantasy forever.

The rest of the drive takes no time at all, caught up in a whirlwind of reverie, cradled in the sound of rain thundering endlessly against the roof of the car. When they pull up, Lorenz declines the offer of an escort and makes a dash to the front door unprotected. Despite the short distance, he’s soaked through by the time he manages to get his spare key in the lock and step inside, breathless and dripping. He stands a moment, letting the quiet roll over him, before setting his briefcase down on the side table and peeling off his sopping outer jacket.

“Claude?” His voice is upsettingly fragile, uncertainly echoing through the silent house. There is no response, and no keys in the dish by the door; when he peers into the closet, Claude’s spring coat is nowhere to be seen. Still out, then. _Maybe it’s for the best. _

He takes a deep breath of cardamom and wool and leather, and shuts the closet door. There’s a pinch in his chest that he can’t eradicate, no matter how vigorously he massages his sternum, so he gives up the attempt and wanders into the kitchen in sock feet.

There is a single plate in the sink, a few crumbs by the toaster. Otherwise the place looks spotless, as though it hasn’t been touched apart from a hasty breakfast eaten over the morning paper. Lorenz has spent many an hour here, renovating, drinking coffee, listening to Claude hammer out the details of a hundred speeches, but right now he feels like a stranger. _You have a key_, he reminds himself, running his thumb along the jagged teeth of it in his pocket. It doesn’t do much to dispel the feeling of wrongness under his skin.

Or maybe that’s just the dampness of his clothes. He latches onto that thought and follows it upstairs, shedding his wet things and leaving them in a hopeful pile next to Claude’s hamper. His bedroom smells of him, spicy and fresh and warm, and he pulls an old Garreg Mach Chess Club sweatshirt out of his closet without a trace of remorse. It’s well-worn, too big in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. He buries his nose in the collar and breathes him in.

He should text Claude, probably. Let him know he stopped by. But the unmade bed is so inviting, and anyway, his phone is still downstairs. He lets himself sink to the mattress and wriggles under the covers. When he presses his cheek to the pillow, it smells of Claude’s aftershave. He shoves his face into it and shuts his eyes.

><

Something feels off the moment Claude steps through the door. He flips the hall light on, but nothing stirs; the closet, when he slides it open silently to hang his coat, is absent of any would-be assailants. But something, some smell in the air, some electric charge beneath his skin, tells him he’s not alone in the house.

He’s got a hand on his phone to call someone when he sees the wet shoes pushed to the edge of the carpet, behind the rubber fig; then the briefcase lying on the hall table. Claude relaxes at once. He’d know those bespoke leather oxfords anywhere.

He pokes his head into the next room, but Lorenz isn’t on the couch, nor in the kitchen. It’s too wet for him to be in the back garden, so Claude drapes his suit coat over the back of a chair to take to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow and climbs the stairs. They creak slightly beneath his weight, but he hears no movement, no voice calling out.

At the top he spies a strip of golden light pooling out through the crack in his bedroom door. He tiptoes up to it and peers in.

The bedside lamp is on, but the man in bed is fast asleep. Purple hair spreads across the pillow in a damp tangle, and by the shape of him under the covers, he’s curled up in a leggy spiral, arms around the pillow and knees practically to his chest. He doesn’t stir when Claude enters the room, nor when he sits gingerly at the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Claude murmurs under his breath. Not that he’s complaining. Seeing Lorenz again after the pre-election whirlwind of the last few weeks is like stepping out into the sun after being cooped up in a windowless room. Though Lorenz is turned away from him, most of his face shoved into the pillow, Claude can see the worry lines etched into his marble brow, the tensile clench of his jaw even in his sleep. He reaches out, petting through the damp, tangled hair streaming over the pillowcase. Lorenz makes a soft sound but doesn’t wake.

He’s wearing Claude’s old hoodie. The faded goldenrod yellow isn’t exactly flattering on him, but seeing Lorenz in his own clothes strikes a possessive spark against the anvil of his heart. He’d been so careful to give him space once Lorenz made it clear he was dealing with his father’s collapse and his sudden rise to power in his own way; but seeing him now stokes a resurgence of affection that Claude can’t shake off.

And anyway, he’s here now. In Claude’s bed. Vulnerable and sweet, the way he only ever lets Claude see. Charmed as if by a sleeping faerie, he tucks a flyaway behind Lorenz’s ear and leans down, kissing his temple. “Lorenz. Wake up, dear.”

This time the sound he makes is more aware, and Lorenz stretches, turning slightly out of the pillow’s embrace as he blinks awake. “Claude?”

“Heya.” He lets his knuckles graze the high plane of one aristocratic cheekbone, pleased when Lorenz leans into it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a beautiful creature in my bed?”

“Mmnngh.” Lorenz wrinkles his nose with sleepy disdain, and Claude’s chest constricts with love. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to fall… asleep…” He yawns and scrubs his face with his sleeve, like a child rubbing exhaustion away. “Time is it?”

“Almost nine.” Claude brushes his thumb over one delicate brow, a hairsbreadth from cradling Lorenz’s face in his hands. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Mnn. No… wanted to see you.”

Claude smiles. “For anything in particular?”

Lorenz doesn’t reply at first; just looks up at him with an unexpectedly serious expression. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glossy and dark in his face, cheeks slightly flush from his nap as if with fever. “No,” he says at last, sounding slightly more awake. “Nothing in particular.” His soft lips break their stern mold and curl up slightly, tempting the touch of Claude’s thumb. “Is that all right?”

“I’m always delighted to see you Lorenz, you know that.” He chances a wink, though he doesn’t quite dare to lean down and kiss him—he feels unsteady on his feet after their weeks apart, and isn’t keen to rush in headlong and shatter the glass bubble surrounding their little haven. “Especially in my bed.”

“Hmm. It’s a very comfortable bed.” Lorenz’s voice, already hoarse from sleep, drops a few decibels as he adds, “You should join me in it.”

“Oh yeah?” He can’t help laughing a little, at Lorenz a bit, but mostly at himself. How easily he is swayed by this man—the slightest pressure and he bows before his weight, happy to throw himself headlong into danger for his sake. Or into bed. He pulls at the tie around his neck and throws it to the ground. “All right. Budge up, sweetheart.”

Lorenz grunts but wriggles over toward the other half of the mattress, watching as Claude peels off his damp clothes piece by piece. He hesitates over his boxer briefs, toying with the waistband as he watches Lorenz watch him. The answer comes to him in the form of dark eyes and a coy smile. With a huff of self-conscious laughter, Claude peels his briefs off and leaves them on top of the pile before crawling into bed.

“Mmm, pre-warmed,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around Lorenz’s trim waist. The shape of him against his body feels so good after a month without. He spreads a hand across the small of his back right away, tipping his nose into the curve of his milky white throat. “Hello there.”

“Hello.” Lorenz looks like he’s laughing, but he doesn’t make a sound except to gasp as Claude feels out the curve of his bottom through his briefs. He squirms both toward and away, smooth legs sliding against Claude’s unshaven ones.

“Can I kiss you?” Claude asks softly.

Lorenz smiles. “Yes.”

The weight of all his worries bleeds away under the soft pressure of Lorenz’s mouth. The flagging ratings, the endless side remarks from his opponents, the tabloids churning out shit faster than he can read it; the looming elections, only a week away, become a bad dream tucked away in a private drawer for later as Lorenz entwines himself closer. Fingers in his hair. Thigh between his thighs.

Claude worries a small pink mark to the side of his neck and gropes his ass more firmly. Against him Lorenz’s body flexes, a ripple of movement, responding instinctively to Claude’s touch. His breath goes quick and shallow against Claude’s cheek as he presses forward, tongue against tongue, fingers sprawled greedily over the planes of Claude’s chest. Claude growls and pushes back against him, pressing him down into the mattress. The hoodie is too large around his trunk and Claude pushes up the hem to return the favor.

Lorenz has almost no hair on his chest, just a bit of eiderdown over his sternum. Claude pets his fingernails against it before moving to play with a nipple. Lorenz whines and squirms, pink as posy, as Claude pushes the hoodie up the rest of the way to kiss his chest. His nipples are pretty pink, too, and grow pinker under Claude’s attention.

“Claude—” he gasps, face half-covered with the dramatic fling of one arm. The other grips the rumpled comforter for dear life as Claude laves his tongue around one nipple before sucking it into his mouth like a sweet. “Oh, goddess…”

“Feel good?” Claude murmurs, rubbing his stubbled cheek over it. He watches Lorenz’s face carefully for any sign of discomfort, but Lorenz just gasps and whines and watches him from behind his borrowed sleeve, eyes dark as obsidian.

“Yes,” he breathes. He whimpers as Claude nibbles the other side attentively, all but gnawing on his thumb. Each whine, each choked gasp, is music to Claude’s ears—but he wants more. Releasing him at last with a _slurp_, Claude tugs the hoodie back down and crawls up for a kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against Lorenz’s lips. Between his legs, Lorenz lifts his thigh and presses it meaningfully to his wet, blazing core. “Ahhh, fuck that’s nice.”

“What do you want?” Lorenz asks, abruptly serious. Claude grinds shallowly against his leg and tries to marshal his thoughts.

“I was—ha…!—gonna ask _you_ that question.” He reaches down, skating his fingertips over Lorenz’s erection laying fat and tempting in his briefs, and past that, to the humid warmth between his legs. Lorenz shifts restlessly on the mattress and lets his thighs fall open wider. “You want a little something different, baby?”

Lorenz huffs and arches his back a little, putting his lean stomach on display beneath the too-short stretch of Claude’s hoodie. “You have a promise to make good on, I believe,” he pants, grinning. His arms flop over his head, entangled in the pillows, the rest of his body stretched out and on display for Claude’s perusal. Claude fists the waistband of his briefs and gives a playful tug. “Claude, don’t tease.”

“Indulge me,” Claude hums, bending over him. “Can you ask me for what you want, sweetheart?”

Lorenz’s eyes widen briefly, then narrow in determination. “Fuck me, Claude von Riegan. With your _cock_.”

“Oooh, baby, you know just how to get me going.” He lets the elastic snap back into place and laughs when Lorenz yelps at the subtle sting. “Give me a second, okay?” He rummages in the side table and tosses him a half-used bottle of lube. “Can you keep yourself entertained?”

Lorenz blushes clear to his hairline, but he nods silently as Claude rolls off him and gets out of bed.

The cool air washes over his heated skin as he goes to the cabinet where he keeps his off-season clothes and a small but diverse sex toy collection. He hasn’t had much call to use his harness in a while, so it takes him a bit longer than he’d hoped to get everything situated. By the time he exits the bathroom again he’s half afraid that Lorenz will have lost interest—but nothing could be further from the truth.

In bed, face turned into the pillow as he squirms on his back in the mussed sheets, Lorenz lays with his legs spread, knees up as he opens himself on his own fingers. His underpants have been discarded, putting his flushed cock on display; but Claude’s hoodie is still doing its valiant best to cover him from ribs to throat, and the sight has Claude fondling his cock, grinding it against his pubic bone as he watches Lorenz shiver. One elegant hand curls into a fist against his open mouth. The other moves between his legs, just out of sight. Claude licks his lips and saunters forward, knee carving a valley into the mattress as he bows over Lorenz and kisses his sweat-damp brow.

“I’m sorry to make you wait, baby. How do you feel?”

“Would be better,” Lorenz rasps, “with you.” He cranes up and Claude meets him in the middle, kissing him open and sloppy. “Please, Claude, I want you.”

“You don’t have to beg, sweetheart,” Claude tells him even as his heart twists fondly in his chest. “I’ll give you what you need.”

~

_Oh, if only you could_, Lorenz thinks desperately.

Right now, surrounded by the sound and smell of him, the feel of his broad hands, his hot breath on his thighs, he almost feels like a happy ending isn’t entirely out of reach. As if Claude could seize a win out of thin air, craft his own victory from the jaws of defeat; then turn, smiling, and take Lorenz into his arms and his life and his heart as though none of the lies they’ve told each other these last few months were anything short of the truth.

It must be some kind of torture, Lorenz thinks, for Claude to be so near and yet so far out of his reach. He devours him with his eyes as he kneels up on the bed and strokes his hands down Lorenz’s thighs, feeling the soft skin, spreading him open. Lorenz can’t look away. Perhaps he should feel some shame, to have his most private places bared for Claude’s perusal; or, at the very least, shame at what he’s doing, stealing this last precious moment with a man who soon won’t want anything to do with him. But he has spent so long being unselfish, bending to the whims of other men. Right now Lorenz just wants to have something for himself. A little sliver of golden light to hold against the dark, when the nights are long and lonely.

“Look at me,” Claude says, coaxing him back to the present. His hands press against the tender skin of Lorenz’s inner thighs until he feels the strain in his pelvis. Claude’s clear green eyes glitter with approval. “Good boy.”

Lorenz shudders, overcome. He isn’t good, not by a long shot; but hearing it feels like Claude has reached into his chest and curled a protective hand around his fragile heart, just on the cusp of shattering.

Poised on his knees between Lorenz’s legs, Claude draws a meandering path with his fingertips over pale skin and thin violet curls, neatly bypassing his aching erection to the smooth stretch of skin beneath, already slick with lube. Claude’s cock stands proud in its harness, very nearly the same shade as his skin. Lorenz swallows back the moisture welling up in his mouth as Claude toys with his hole, a promise of things to come.

“Have you done this before?” he murmurs, fetching the bottle where Lorenz had carelessly tossed aside.

“No,” Lorenz whispers. He isn’t sure whether he’s confessing a sin or admitting to something sexy—from the look on Claude’s face it’s neither, just a simple fact that needs no embellishment. Lorenz can’t help feeling the need to embellish anyway. “I mean… my fingers, occasionally, but never…”

“That’s just fine,” Claude soothes when he trails off, unsure how to continue. “We’ll go slow.” He leans in and brushes a kiss to one upturned knee, hands busy elsewhere. “Just say if you want to ease up, okay?”

Lorenz takes a steadying breath and nods, watching every move and shift intently. “I will.”

Then there’s a slick finger at his entrance, circling briefly before pressing in, smooth and easy. Lorenz trembles slightly, gnawing on his lower lip as Claude scoops up one pale thigh and hitches it over his shoulder. Two fingers present a little more resistance, but he’s already warmed up to it and he moans at the careful hook of Claude’s fingertips against his inner walls.

It’s different, when it’s someone else. When it’s Claude. He moves with intent, brow furrowed slightly in concentration, dark curls falling over his forehead as they dry frizzy and untamed after the rain. His fingers are thicker around than Lorenz’s own, patient and probing—when he finds his prostate, Lorenz’s cock jumps and his entire body goes stiff without his say-so, shuddering like a kettle about to boil over. Claude grins and massages the spot mercilessly.

“That feel good?”

“Yes… yes. _Oh…_” Lorenz’s hips twist in the sheets as he squirms, fighting to get closer, to get _more_. “Claude…”

“Gorgeous,” Claude tells him. His voice is dark and burred at the edges with arousal; it fills Lorenz’s senses like a rich perfume, soothing the dregs of anxiety in his gut, making him pliant and unafraid. Claude drags his fingers out slow, spreading him open, and coos with praise as Lorenz bucks and keens and begs for more. “That’s a good boy. So pretty and relaxed for me.”

Lorenz whines and tosses his head back, exposing his throat, overwhelmed. Claude’s fingers press back and forth and over and around that maddening spot inside him and he’s on _fire_. It isn’t fair that Claude can say such sweet things. Isn’t fair that he can touch him like this, like he’s the only person in the world and Claude has decided to devote himself entirely to Lorenz’s pleasure.

“Please,” Lorenz begs, the words bursting out of him in a meaningless babble, “please, Claude, please, fuck me _fuck me_, I’m—!”

His legs lock up and his tongue goes quiet, silenced by the weight of the orgasm rushing through him. For a moment all he can see are the spots dancing in front of his eyes, obscuring Claude’s face; but he manages to suck in a breath as the first wave passes, and when his vision clears, he looks down to see his own cock still flushed an angry red, even harder than before.

“What—what did you do?” he gasps, still shivering as the aftershocks pass through him like rolls of thunder.

Claude laughs, delighted at his own prowess. “Made you cum. Isn’t that what you wanted?” He bends down, kissing him sweetly until he can breathe properly, cradled gently back to earth after rocketing sky-high. Claude’s fingers still move in him, though not as insistently, just barely grazing the sweet spot that makes his cock drool and his legs go weak as a newborn foal’s. “How does that feel, sweet?”

“Good,” Lorenz admits at a quiet rasp, unable to keep his hips from rocking into his hand. “More.”

“Yeah?” He turns and presses a kiss to the inside of Lorenz’s bent knee, still peering at him sidelong through the hair that falls over his temple. There’s a tender, secret little smile just barely hidden in that kiss. “You want my cock, baby?”

“Yes—yes, Claude, please—”

His breath hitches in his chest as Claude’s fingers slip out of him, leaving him cold and empty. For a moment Lorenz is aching, fearful—but then he feels something firm and blunt against his slick perineum, teasing up and down as Claude rocks forward. Lorenz shuts his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed.

There is a hand on his cheek. Lips on his bent thigh. Pressure at his nether entrance, pushing, pushing. For a moment he seizes up, struck with fear that he won’t be able to do this, won’t be good for Claude—after Claude has been so good, so sweet to him! But then his body gives way all at once, and he sucks in a breath as the head of Claude’s cock slips inside.

“There,” Claude murmurs. He holds himself there, cradling Lorenz to him as Lorenz adjusts to the intrusion. “You’re doing so well, baby.”

Claude’s soothing words are like a distant buzz he can barely hear. He hadn’t anticipated this. How intense it would feel, how raw and intimate. There is nothing left to give that Claude has not already claimed; no part of him that has not been touched by Claude’s hands, his voice, his smile. He is the sun, and Lorenz a lowly planet, spinning in endless orbit, always drawing close but never close enough—and yet Claude’s light has enveloped him, staked its claim.

Lorenz would do it all over again, if he could.

Oblivious to the torrent of emotions roiling beneath Lorenz’s skin, Claude presses in further, easy and slow. Lorenz’s body opens for him effortlessly, like he was made to fit there. Lorenz himself can hardly breathe. When Claude gently seats himself, molding Lorenz’s legs around his sturdy waist, Lorenz realizes he’s holding back tears.

Lips against his forehead. Claude’s voice, murmuring praise as he rolls his hips. He blinks against the burning and clings to Claude’s shoulders, so broad and strong and infallible.

_Goddess, what is wrong with me?_

“Lorenz, sweetheart,” Claude whispers against his temple. He doesn’t stop, not entirely, but he steadies himself like a ship at harbor, rocking very slightly to the rhythm of quiet waves. “Doing okay?”

“Yes,” Lorenz chokes out. “Don’t stop.”

There’s a rough, warm palm against the side of his face, and Claude guides their mouths together for a kiss.

The waves kick up, buffeted by the wind; the gentle slap of Claude’s hips to his are the first whisper of whitecaps out in the bay. If he is the ship, Claude is both sea and captain, manipulating his rigging, turning his rudder in deference to the wind and tide. Under his hands Lorenz is helpless, malleable, unmade. Reborn.

He comes like a clap of thunder over open water, rain-lashed and beaten to a pulp by the storm. His cheeks are wet, but Claude says nothing; just wipes them dry with his thumbs as he fucks him gently through the aftershocks. Lorenz wants to reach for him, return the favor—but he is boneless on the bed, worn thin as tissue paper, and can only watch as Claude sinks deep, grinding sharp and quick against him before bowing forward and coming with a soft grunt and a shudder that moves through him like heat lightning.

~

Claude pulls out slowly and leans down, smudging kisses to Lorenz’s chest and stomach as he wipes him dry with the edge of the topsheet. His heart is still racing, skin hot as if with sunburn. It takes all his self-control to force his fingers around the buckles of the harness and strip it off, leaving pink marks behind where it dug into his thighs.

He wants to give in, wants to shave away any lasting pretense and let himself crumble into pathetic, lovesick dust; but Lorenz is still shaking slightly, eyes pink-rimmed and unfocused, so Claude gathers him into his arms and strokes his back beneath the hoodie, petting his hair back from his face.

“You did so well,” he whispers, and smiles when Lorenz whimpers and shoves his face into Claude’s sweaty neck, ceding himself to Claude’s touch. “Oh, sweetheart, you were lovely. Do you feel good?”

A tiny nod. Lorenz’s hands are fists between them, so Claude gently straightens out his fingers and spreads them selfishly against his chest instead. Slowly, Lorenz softens against him, and Claude lets himself kiss his brow, the thin silky hairs above his ear where they’re damp with sweat. Lorenz is gorgeous all the time, but especially now, naked and glowing with desire, defenses worn away by the patient ministrations of Claude’s hands. Claude can’t get enough. Will never have enough, even if he had an entire lifetime to hold him in his arms.

Lorenz mumbles something against his skin and Claude stills. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said… thank you,” Lorenz whispers, like he’s admitting a dark secret. Claude’s heart cracks apart a little more.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly into that lavender hair. “I should be the one thanking _you_. For… trusting me.” He strokes his knuckles in a long, slow sweep down Lorenz’s spine, then up again, relishing the bare press of his body softening beneath it.

It feels good, just holding him like this. Breathing together. Hearts beating in the same handful of square inches, out of all the vast expanse of the universe; and yet it’s also a blade pressing mercilessly against the tender skin of his throat. He is holding his breath, waiting for the cut even as he peels himself apart, handing over scraps of his foolish heart and hoping it will somehow be enough.

_I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. I need to tell him. _

His heart is pounding in his chest. Claude shuts his eyes and opens his mouth.

“Claude,” Lorenz blurts out before he can speak, “I have—a favor to ask.”

Claude almost chokes on his own tongue. “Of course,” he says, trying to sound like a normal person and not an idiot about to bare his heart for the flaying. “Anything, please.” _Tone it down, casanova. _

“There’s something I’ve been… putting off. Involving my father.”

For a split second, cold disappointment wells up in Claude’s throat. This is hardly the romantic pillow talk he’d hoped for. But Lorenz is obviously in pain, in need—and Claude has never been able to deny him anything. Especially not right now. “All right. Let’s have it.”

Lorenz takes a breath that quivers slightly at the edges, but his voice is soft and steady. “My father will be going to live at the country house once he’s back on his feet. I want to go out before that happens and collect anything that might be useful.”

“Collect… information, you mean.”

Lorenz nods, and his silken hair brushes Claude’s chin. “I’m not pressing charges, per our verbal agreement, but my lawyer recommended I try to gather up more evidence, just in case; at the very least so I can keep things in order and prevent him from trying anything suspicious.”

“You want me to come with you,” Claude guesses.

“If… if it’s not too much trouble. I’ve been dreading doing it alone, but having you there will make it more bearable.”

Claude stifles a sigh and turns his head into the pillow, lips to Lorenz’s crown almost incidentally. Almost. “Of course I’ll go with you. When?”

“I know you’re terribly busy—”

“I’ll make time,” he interrupts, perhaps a little sharply. To soften it he picks up the stroke of his hand along Lorenz’s spine, listening to the way Lorenz’s breath eases in his chest. “This weekend?”

“Sunday? It’s an hour’s drive out and back.”

“I’ll pick you up. Raph can take us.”

“If you’re sure.”

Claude shuts his eyes. “I’m sure.”

><><

Lorenz grew up at the Gloucester country estate, but he hasn’t been back in almost five years, not since graduating college and moving directly into Derdriu. Coming back now feels like he’s stepping back in time. The long driveway up to the house, framed in thick trees; the looming facade, even more grandiose and intimidating than the townhouse; the well-groomed lawn despite the family’s absence, with the coy slip of a peacock tail disappearing behind a hedge.

“Whew,” Claude whistles as he gets out, standing with his hands in his pockets and looking up at the house. “This is… quite the place.”

Lorenz thinks of Judith and Nader’s streamlined, modern elegance, and tries not to wince. “Gloucesters wouldn’t know subtlety if it slapped them in the face, unfortunately.” He swallows down the urge to hunch his shoulders and hide his face from roving, unseen eyes. His father keeps a small staff on hand even when he isn’t in the country. He wonders if he knows any of them still. “Let’s go in.”

The house, when they step inside, feels almost deserted. The entryway is cavernous with its dark wood paneling, the floors polished but cold with their black and white marble. The lights flip on at his touch, but there is not a whisper of movement anywhere, and the bulbs in their crystal chandeliers high overhead barely shed enough light to cut through the opulent dimness.

“Nobody home?” Claude ventures, a weak attempt at humor. His voice is swallowed up by the emptiness.

“Perhaps not. I thought there might be staff about, but it seems I was mistaken.” His hand, he realizes, is shaking slightly. Through an open archway into the eastern salon he can see dustcloths draped over the heirloom furniture, making ghosts of the shapes he used to run through and hide behind as a boy. With effort, he tears himself away and turns to see Claude holding his hand out toward him. “Yes, what is it?”

“Moral support.” Claude shrugs as though it’s nothing at all. But he smiles when Lorenz accepts his hand, and folds it into the crook of his arm as though he is an elegant gentleman, and Lorenz his lady-love. “Shall we?”

Their footsteps echo sharply through the house as Lorenz guides them to the second floor. The smell of dust polish is thicker here, and very occasionally the scent of mothballs wafts past whenever they approach a window with heavy drawn drapes. If most of the first floor is preserved, as if in a museum, ready to be shown off to visitors at the slightest opportunity, the second floor is all stodgy mid-century pieces, interspersed with unusual antiques too chipped and time-worn to be displayed downstairs.

His father’s study sits at the far western wing of the house, overlooking a prim, tightly-kept hedge maze with a dry fountain at its center. Lorenz stands on the threshold a moment, just looking in. The tips of his shoes not quite inside the room. At his side, Claude leans in and curls his thumb against the sleeve of Lorenz’s inner elbow.

“Want me to go in first?” he asks.

“No—no, that’s all right. Forgive me, I was… reminiscing.” Lorenz swallows down the lump of instinctive fear, trying to ignore the way it bobs back up into his throat like a persistent lure. “This will likely be rather tedious for you, I fear.”

“No apologies necessary.” Claude gives his elbow a gentle squeeze and releases him. “If you’d rather handle this by yourself I’m sure I can find something to entertain me. Snoop around the bedrooms, see how many family heirlooms I can sneak into my pockets…”

Lorenz laughs despite the heavy weight around his heart. “Snoop away. I’ve not been back in so long, goddess knows what sorts of embarrassing things are just lying around waiting to be discovered.”

Claude hums with amusement and drifts down the hall, hands in his pockets. Lorenz tries, and fails, not to watch him go.

Perhaps bringing Claude here was a mistake. He reforms the shape of Lorenz’s childhood home around him like a black hole, pushing aside bleak memories and kindling the spark of new ones like a promise. It was selfish to ask him—selfish to crawl into his bed and beg his favor one last time. Lorenz shuts his eyes and tries to shake off the ghost of Claude’s hands. His mouth; his hips, driving into him so expertly. His sweet words, laden with unspoken promises that Lorenz couldn’t bear to hear out loud.

The more he thinks on it, the harder the knife of his own conviction drives between his ribs. He knows what he must do—he’s already approved the script Lysithea sent him. In two days’ time he will stand in front of a hundred cameras and “confess” his manipulation of his best friend. He will be luckily to even catch a glimpse of Claude in person after that.

_It’s for the best_, he reminds himself sternly, and takes that momentum into his own hands, finally stepping into the study with fortitude.

He is soon distracted from his woes by the treasure trove that is his father’s desk. Though heading up his own business has forced him to conduct most of his work on a digital platform, Count Gloucester is old-fashioned at heart, and his study here reflects that. There are receipts labeled and stored precisely in filing cabinets; reports typed up by Albrecht and printed out for the Count’s perusal. Over the next hour Lorenz unearths evidence of his father’s meddling into the Riegan family’s affairs nearly a decade back, ever since the Duke formally announced his grandson into Leicester society.

Lorenz snaps photos of all of it, sending more pertinent details to his lawyer, and tucks what he can into a file folder, but in truth there’s too much to simply carry away. Perhaps it’s a good thing Claude is here after all—he will need assistance boxing up all these papers and transferring them to the car.

“Lorenz?”

He looks up quickly, headache pulsing to life behind his eyes. Claude is hovering in the doorway like an uncertain guest, something tucked under his arm. “Yes, what is it?”

“I found something I thought you might like to see.”

Lorenz beckons him forward, setting aside his accumulated pile for now, and Claude comes forward and rests the object he was carrying on the desk. It’s a photo album. Lorenz runs a finger cautiously across the front. It comes away dusty, but the surface beneath is smooth patent leather, and the gilded writing on the spine declares it _The Gloucester Family, ca. 1160-1170._

“Where did you find this?”

“The attic. There’s tons of stuff up there, but this caught my eye.” Gingerly, like he’s expecting to be told off, Claude comes around the desk and rests his bum on the edge of it, hair falling into his eyes as he peers down at the album. “You were born in 1161, yeah?”

“Correct.” Lorenz’s hand still hovers over the book—he’s not sure why. He had never been a very photogenic child, with an unfortunate propensity for stiff, ghoulish expressions and occasional petulant crying whenever Nanny brought out the camera. Eventually she’d given up trying to document all of his _firsts_ for his father. Apart from school photos and the annual stiff-upper-lip family portrait—which, to his memory, only ever consisted of himself and his father, and one memorable year, his flat-faced, loaf-shaped cat Sir Charles—he doesn’t really have any pictures of himself as a child.

“Go on,” Claude says gently. “Open it.”

Lorenz looks at him quickly. “You already peeked.”

“Maybe.” A bit of impishness creeps into his smile. “I wasn’t going to bring it down if it was full of, I dunno, staff photos of Gloucester Tech.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes and pulls the album toward him. Takes a breath. Opens to the first page.

The first picture is actually a nine-by-twelve glossy print of a wedding altar. It’s clearly a destination wedding, with a bluer ocean in the background than the Derdriatic Sea, and a sky touched with the first ochre blush of sunset. The happy couple is turned to face the camera, the man slightly shorter than his bride, smile faint but earnest, lavender hair gelled neatly into place. His father, much younger and, to all appearances, much, much happier.

The woman beside him is only a faint shadow of memory in Lorenz’s mind. Tall, warmer complexioned than her new husband but still quite pale, her black hair hanging in glossy waves over the bodice of her old-fashioned gown. Lace forms a heart shape over her bosom and climbs to the jeweled circlet at her throat before covering her arms demurely, offset by the gauzy fountain of her veil and train. She is young, and beautiful, and smiling. Lorenz touches the picture through the protective plastic, speechless. He’s never seen his own eyes staring back at him from someone else’s face before.

“Your mum, right?” Claude says softly. “She’s gorgeous.”

“She is.” Lorenz swallows, throat clicking audibly. He turns the page.

There are a few more wedding photos, smaller polaroids and six-by-fours printed from old camera film, though more than a handful of them are missing, leaving behind empty sleeves. He wonders if the sleeves were left open on purpose, or if the pictures were removed later.

There seems to be a bit of a timeskip, because the next few photos are of the house, of renovations, of a delighted Mrs. Gloucester brandishing a paintbrush at the camera, her free hand against the swell of her stomach. Then he turns the page again and his heart leaps into his throat. His mother, lying on a hospital bed, beaming fit to call the sun to rise. In her arms is a tiny bundle, red-faced, largely featureless but for a bit of purple fuzz atop the wrinkled head.

“Awww,” Claude whispers. “Look at you.”

Lorenz _is _looking—in fact he can’t look away. “I’ve never seen this picture before.”

“Really?”

He nods mutely. In the photo, his father is nowhere to be seen, but there’s another woman he doesn't recognize—her sister, maybe—standing on the other side of the bed and giving the camera a double thumbs up. His mother looks exhausted, still sheened with sweat, her hair sticking limply to her face… and yet he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone look happier.

“Keep going,” Claude urges gently. “The best stuff is coming up.”

Lorenz is too dumbstruck to chide him. He flips through the pages slowly, absorbing every picture with a voracious hunger he’s never felt before. Almost all the photos are of his mother and himself, though his father and other assorted family members occasionally make an appearance. He watches in fast-forward as he grows from a squalling, red-faced newborn to a healthy pink baby, dressed in an endless parade of purple onesies and ridiculous knit caps; watches as his mother grows more and more tired, her smiles drooping despite her obvious love for her son. There are pictures of him being pushed in a pram, of first steps, of diaper changes, of sitting in his state-of-the-art high chair and splatting chocolate cake with eager one-year-old hands. Pictures of sitting on his mother’s slim shoulders in the streets of Derdriu. Pictures of toddling after ducks in the park, wearing too-big galoshes and a bright yellow jacket that clashes horribly with his hair.

The collection ends abruptly, with more than half the album empty. The last photo is of him, perhaps two and a half years old, sitting on his mother’s lap while she reads to him. Her hair is still dark and lustrous, her face quiet and beautiful in repose. But there is a tension around her eyes—a particular white-knuckled grip around the spine of the book that speaks of grief and frustration and long, cold exhaustion. Baby Lorenz, blissfully unaware, sucks his thumb and stares sleepily at the pages of the book, head tucked under his mother’s chin.

Lorenz slips the photograph from its sleeve and holds it nearer. “This was taken right before she left.”

“You’re sure?”

“Fairly sure. She documented everything else so faithfully, and then… nothing.” On instinct, he flips the photo over. Surely enough, written there in a tidy, elegant cursive reads, _Lorenz and Momma, Verdant Moon 1163._

It occurs to him rather suddenly that he doesn’t even know her name. She had always been _Momma_. What use did a three year old have for given names? And Lorenz, believing all his life that she had left because she didn’t love him anymore, had never thought to ask.

A thought seizes him and he flips back to the front, resting the single photo safely out of the way. The wedding portrait feels more sinister now, more weighted as he pulls it from its protective plastic. He turns it over, and there, sure enough, is printed _Arthur H. Gloucester and Leticia S. C. Gloucester_ in overly fanciful script.

“Leticia,” Lorenz whispers out loud.

He stares in silence for a moment at the names printed there, at a loss. Then common sense kicks back in and he reaches for his phone. A quick internet search pulls up the press release announcing his parents’ separation, cold and impersonal but exactly what he’s looking for.

_Arthur H. Gloucester regretfully announces his separation from his wife of five years, Leticia Cezar. They have one son, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, who will remain with his father in Leicester. _

A handful of words so far removed from reality they could almost be describing something—someone—else. Lorenz swallows his fear and his pride, and inputs a search for Leticia Cezar.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting. A few Facebook hits, maybe, punctuated by outdated articles and maybe traces of her previous marriage dragged unkindly through the tabloids. The first hit _is_ from a news article, in fact, but it’s a Brigid-based journalism site, and the article in question is announcing the opening of a third shop in Brigid selling exclusively the wedding gown designs of fashion mogul Leticia Cezar.

The woman in the photo is older than the one in his hand, but it’s her. Unmistakably. Her hair has a charming white streak in the front, but the rest of it is still dark and elegant, pinned into a sleek knot at the back of her head. She is smiling politely in the photo as she shakes hands with someone, lips expertly colored plum, eyes fanned by the lines of age and laughter. Lorenz skims the article and moves on, even poking at an Instagram account that seems to be used by her rather infrequently. From what he can glean she is a successful designer and businesswoman settled in Brigid with a new family of her own, though he can find no announcements of her remarriage, and the few pictures he can find depicting her children don’t seem to indicate a biological relationship.

“She left when I was three,” Lorenz says at last into the quiet room. His phone is dark and he’s looking at the picture of the two of them reading, the photo paper thick and sharp-edged beneath his thumb. “I cried for days. That’s… really my only memory of her. Leaving.”

Claude doesn’t say anything, just moves to rest his hand steadily on Lorenz’s shoulder.

“I was angry at her for a long time. And then I just… forgot. What was the use of being angry at a ghost? As far as my father and I were concerned, she had never existed.”

“She clearly loved you very much,” Claude says softly.

“Yes. That is… overwhelmingly evident.” _Leticia… does my name come from her side of the family? _“Father never spoke of her. As a child I fancied she had broken his heart, like she’d broken mine. But lately, I…” He trailed off, hesitant even now to speak ill of his sire. “I think I understand, now, that if she left… if she left _me_, it was not of her own volition.”

“You think he forced her to leave?”

“No, at least not directly… only that perhaps she saw what the rest of the world did not, at the time. Or if they did see it, they didn’t care that he was a useless slug of a man, more concerned with his own wealth and fame than being a decent person. But… she had borne him a son. And so if she _did_ leave, of course he wouldn’t have allowed her to take me with her.”

He stands suddenly, overcome by the logical conclusion of his own words. Claude slips off the desk and stands beside him, loose-limbed but eyes as sharp as cut diamonds, waiting. _Waiting for what? _

“And then, when the reforms were passed, and it didn’t _matter_ whether you had children to carry on your title and position when you died—”

“Oh, hell,” Claude says.

“Yes. I quite agree.” Lorenz barks a bitter laugh. “It was all for nothing. All his scheming, his keeping me from her. _Nothing_.”

Claude does not follow him when he leaves the room, even though a rather large part of Lorenz wishes that he would. Instead he paces alone down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time, his heavy footfalls muffled by the thick carpet. When he reaches the bottom and steps outside onto the veranda, he takes a moment to gather his wits and his breath before taking up his phone and pressing _call. _

It rings twice, perfunctory, before there’s a _click_ and a smooth young woman’s voice says, “Office of Ms. Cezar, how may I assist you today?”

Lorenz swallows, and swallows again. “I would like to speak with Leticia, if she is free,” he says, and his voice sounds almost normal in his own ears.

There is a pause, and then the tapping of keys. “I will see if she’s available. Who shall I say is calling?”

_Breathe. Just… breathe. _“Tell her it’s Lorenz. Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're almost done. Can you?? ;o;


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A speech, a phone call, and a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooo boy *wipes sweat from brow* i canNOT believe we're made it. this has truly been a labor of love, and i am so grateful to each and everyone of you who's read this far, left kudos, left comments, and yelled at me on twitter when things got wild. even though this fic is drawing to a close (epilogue coming soon!!), i hope to revisit this 'verse once in a while, as the mood strikes. i love these dumb boys very much and i'm glad you do too. please feel free to leave a comment here or on twitter @rachebones and let me know what you thought, i wouldn't have made it this far without your encouragement!
> 
> extra thanks for this chapter to blue, who basically wrote claude's [redacted] speech for me and cheered me on when i faltered!!

Claude is in the middle of a conversation with the Councilman from Edmundshire when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. It’s quiet and unobtrusive, and the councilman doesn’t seem to notice, but it takes every ounce of self-control not to turn on his heel and excuse himself to take the call. The rep is a jolly sort of man, short and rotund and bespectacled, with more than twenty years on the Roundtable under his belt. Claude can’t afford to slight him, especially not right now.

He manages to extract himself a few minutes later, after two more phone calls and the sharp, insistent _bzzt_ of a voicemail. The luncheon part of the event is winding down, so he takes himself off to the edge of the garden and checks his phone.

Two phonecalls from Hilda, one from Lysithea. The voicemail is from the former and simply contains the words _call me back. _Nerves twisting like snakes in his gut, Claude presses _call_ and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long. “Claude, thank god,” Hilda chirps in his ear, voice buzzing in his ear like a sugar high gone wrong. “I was about to drive over there myself.”

“What the hell is going on?” Claude demands, fear making him sharp. “Has something happened?”

“Something’s happened all right. Your boyfriend just pulled another publicity stunt—or should I say, your _ex-_boyfriend.”

Claude’s stomach twists into a hard knot and holds there, frozen. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“He sure knows how to work a press junket for all it’s worth, I’ll give him that. You should thank him, you know. Your ratings are about to go sky-high.” Hilda’s voice is hard to parse through the phone—some kind of mix of proud, relieved, and grievously disappointed. “You missed the broadcast but there’s already clips online. I’ll send you one.”

“Hilda, what has he _done_?”

Hilda is quiet a moment. “Told the truth,” she says at last, sounding more like herself. “Or some version of it, anyway.”

She hangs up before he can ask for clarification. Only the promise of answers keeps him from throwing his phone to the ground in frustration. That, and the small crowd of political peers milling about just out of earshot.

The text comes through immediately, linking to a local news station. One of the better ones. The headline alone has him sick to his stomach. _L.H. Gloucester Reveals Truth About Fabricated Relationship. _He ignores the attached article and clicks on the video.

On the screen, behind a hundred microphones, Lorenz sits with an ironclad indifference baked into the set of his shoulders like a suit of armor. His hair has been pulled back into a tail, making him look older and, to Claude’s keen eyes, exhausted; but he also wears a thin, trembling veneer of professional detachment that is probably fooling everyone else.

Claude’s pointer finger hovers over the screen a moment, almost touching Lorenz’s face. He takes a breath and pushes play.

_Before we close out, I wish to make one last personal statement unrelated to the affairs of Gloucester Technologies. I will not be taking any more questions. _

_There has been much discussion lately concerning my relationship with Claude von Riegan. A great deal of speculation and falsehood has been perpetuated in the media, and it does us both a disservice to continue on in this manner without clarifying the details. _

_Nearly a year ago I was outed to my father against my will. To preserve my dignity and my social standing, von Riegan agreed to pose as my long term partner until such a time as I could assume leadership of Gloucester Tech. The idea was mine, the execution was mine. It could be said that I took advantage of him, and his friendship. _

_As it was my idea, and at my insistence, I feel it only fair that I make it known that he has been released from that contract and any relations or partners he pursues in the future, or has pursued in the past, have no bearing on his faithfulness, his honesty, or his integrity as a man and as a leader. _

Claude stares at his phone long after the video has stopped playing. _My idea. At my insistence. Released from that contract. _The words swirl through his head like dirty water down a storm drain, tangled and impossible to separate.

He has to call Lorenz. He has to get out of here.

A quick text or three and Raph is pulling up the car at the front of the venue while Claude listens to Lorenz’s phone ring. And ring. And ring. He slides into the backseat as he’s sent to voicemail and hangs up, promptly calling again. Still no response. With his heart in his throat and the privacy glass slid shut, Claude hunches over with elbows to knees and listens to the smooth, velvet-toned voice on the other end.

“You’ve reached the personal voicemail of Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. Unfortunately I am unable to answer the phone at the moment, but if you leave a message I will try to get back to you as quickly as possible.”

Claude’s eyes squeeze shut of their own accord and he hangs there, silent, mouth agape as he tries to gather his thoughts. The seconds tick by. Traffic burbles in his periphery like an unquiet stream: the hum of cars, the faint honking of an irate driver, the jangle of bicycle bells and the squeal of breaks. His chest aches. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Lorenz,” he says at last, afraid if he doesn’t speak now he’ll never get another chance. “Lorenz.” He rubs his left hand over his face, palm rasping against stubble. “Please call me back. Please. I’m not angry, I just want to know… why.”

It’s not the professional-sounding, levelheaded message he wanted to leave, but it’s all he can muster. He hangs up and shoots of a text as well, just in case. _Can we talk? ASAP? _

Before he can press send, an incoming call buzzes in his hand. Lysithea. Claude smothers his disappointment and picks up the phone.

“Did you know about this?” he says, skipping the niceties.

“I did.”

“And you didn’t think to warn me.”

“Lorenz asked me not to.” She sounds genuinely apologetic, but her voice is firm and brooks no argument. “I’m sorry, Claude. This was his decision, and I respected it.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“I wanted to offer you my services, _gratis_, if you wanted help making a statement of your own.”

Claude rubs his forehead. “I don’t want to do a junket, or an interview. I’m sick of cameras in my face. No more. Not for my personal life.”

“A simple press release, then. Just a line or two, to solidify your position in the public eye.”

It feels so clinical. So impersonal. Muscle memory alone guides him into agreeing, wrapping up the details, hanging up the phone. Lorenz hasn’t replied yet.

_Probably drowning in notifications. I’ll give him a few hours._

It’s a paltry attempt at logic, but he has no other choice. He leans back in his seat and waits, hopes, prays for a phone call that never comes.

><

“Lorenz, I’d like you to meet my partner, Catherine Rubens. She’ll be joining your security detail for the next two months, per our contract.”

“A delight to meet you, Ms. Rubens.” Lorenz extends his hand and finds it engulfed in a warm, sturdy grip. The woman it’s attached to is Shamir’s opposite in every way: blonde, blunt, bombastic, and unapologetically butch. She straightens her tie and stands a little straighter, not quite parade rest.

“You as well, Mr. Gloucester. Or is it Lorenz?”

“Just Lorenz will do, thank you.” He straightens his tie and his slipping smile. “Shamir has briefed you, I understand.”

“That’s right. And please, it’s Catherine. I’m not particularly formal, long as you’re comfortable I’m comfortable.” She sticks her square hands in her square-cut pockets and levels her surprisingly sharp blue stare at him. As with Shamir’s initial assessment, he feels the urge to flinch away, to hide—but there’s nowhere to go. “If you don’t mind,” she says, “I’d like to do a sweep of the place on my own, get a feel for what I’m working with.”

“By all means.” He extends his hand in a sweeping gesture like he’s unfolding a cape from his shoulder, but Catherine has already turned away, moving on a trajectory of her own through his spotless penthouse. Lorenz tidies when he’s nervous, and lately he feels like he’s forgotten how to _not_ be nervous.

“She’s solid,” Shamir says quietly once her partner is out of earshot. “I trust her with my life. And with yours.”

“I’m grateful for your recommendation,” Lorenz replies, with more verve than he feels.

His phone buzzes in his pocket before he can say anything more, and he’s both grateful for the out and dreadfully anxious over what he’ll find. Thankfully the name on the text belongs to Lysithea. Less thrilling is the body of the text, which is short and to the point.

_I relayed the information to Claude. He still wants to talk to you. _

Lorenz shuts his eyes. Unsurprising. Claude has been incredibly persistent all day, ever since the press junket aired and sent the tabloids scrambling to cover it. Lorenz has managed to ignore and avoid most of it, hoping Claude would relent and give him some space to deal with the fallout—but apparently he misjudged him.

“Could you excuse me a minute?” he says, dread choking him. Shamir just nods, something perilously close to sympathy turning her dark navy eyes to indigo. Lorenz retreats to his office and types in the number he knows by heart.

Claude answers immediately. “Lorenz, thank the goddess. Are you all right?”

Surprise catches his tongue in its grip and holds him still. Of all the things he’d been prepared for Claude to say, this wasn’t even on the list.

There is a long, terrible silence, ending on a caught breath. “Lorenz?”

“I’m—yes. Sorry, I’m fine. I’m fine.” His voice trembles audibly. Foolish, fragile, crumbling. One taste of Claude’s voice in his ear and he’s already on the verge of crawling back. _Don’t. You made your bed, and now you must lie in it. _“And yourself?”

“Me? I’m not the one who—” Claude cuts himself off and Lorenz can hear him taking a deep breath on the other end. “I’m all right. I just want to know _why_.”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Explain it to me.”

“Lysithea—”

“No. From your own lips, Lorenz. Don’t you owe me that much?”

There it is. The first hint of anger in his voice. Lorenz lets it hit him, lets it smack him in the chest like a wave slamming into his body, threatening to drag him under. Then he plants his feet, feels the suck and slough of sand through his toes, and holds steady. Lets it light a spark in him, a flame of indignation.

“I wanted to protect you,” he says. This time his voice does not tremble. “I would think you’d be grateful.”

“_Grateful_.”

“After everything you’ve done for me, I only wanted to return the favor. And I have, to the best of my ability.”

“Lorenz—”

“My position is more secure than it ever has been. My father can’t touch me. Gloucester Tech is mine, I got everything I wanted. Now it’s your turn.”

Claude’s sigh rattles between them like barren branches in a stiff coastal breeze. “And what happened to making decisions together, hm?”

Lorenz swallows back the desperate apology that keeps crawling up his tongue and spits out, “That was _your_ prerogative, not mine.”

A beat of silence as sharp as a knife. “I thought we were in this together,” Claude says. Lorenz tries to ignore the way his voice is shaking, nails biting deeply into the palm of his hand. “I thought—I want to be grateful, Lorenz, truly I do, but I never wanted this. I never wanted success at _your_ expense. Haven’t I made that clear? Haven’t I shown you how much I—” His voice breaks off, sheer as a cliff’s edge. “I made my choice. I made my peace. You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s already done,” Lorenz says. His voice is cold and detached in his own ears. “I’m sorry to have gone behind your back, but I couldn’t let you take this fall for me, not again.”

“I would have taken it.” Claude swallows. “A thousand times, I would have taken it.”

“And now you don’t have to. And I can rest easy at night knowing I wasn’t the cause of your misery for the rest of our lives.”

“Lorenz—”

“It’s probably best if you don’t call me again. We shouldn’t be seen together anymore. You have an election to focus on, after all.” He hesitates the slightest moment, almost hoping to be cut off, but it seems he’s shocked Claude into silence. _All the better_. “Goodbye, Claude. Thank you for everything you’ve done. I hope… I hope in time you can forgive me.”

He returns to the main room nearly twenty minutes later, once he’s sure his face is dry and his composure is set into place, fresh plaster layered over in a suffocating mask. Catherine and Shamir, consummate professionals, ignore his red-rimmed eyes and sit down to go over their recommendations for his updated security detail.

><><

_Three days prior, the Gloucester Estate._

“Hello?”

The voice on the other hand is everything he imagined and yet entirely different all at once. He isn’t sure if the husky tone is familiar because he remembers it, or because he _wants_ so badly to remember.

_Say something_, he tells himself. He is wired to the spot as if with steel cable, and he realizes suddenly that he had called his mother—his _mother_—without any planning or forethought.

“Hello,” he says at last, before the silence can grow from _awkward_ to _embarrassing. _Just two syllables is enough to break the dam stoppering his throat, and the good manners baked into his bones from a young age surge up to take the reins. “I’m—I’m sorry to disturb you, I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem at all.” Her voice is rich and cultured with a faint Dagdan lilt, and she sounds half-breathless, as though she’s clinging to normalcy as fervently as he is. “This is… Lorenz?”

“Yes.” He stands quite still, hardly breathing. The late afternoon gloaming is cool against his flushed cheeks, and a faint breeze stirs his hair. If he shuts his eyes he can almost imagine her, a picture-perfect replica of her wedding portrait, with perhaps a few more smile lines, a few more gray hairs. He swallows down the dryness in his throat and presses on. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t quite know what to say.”

A gentle laugh, rippling like a stream, sends shivers of deep-seated déjà vu trickling down his spine. “Neither do I. I can’t say I was expecting to hear from you.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” _Breathe. Just… breathe._ “I didn’t think—I didn’t realize…” He doesn’t know to do this. How to put one foot in front of the other. He suddenly regrets leaving Claude behind in his fit of pique, longing for the stability of his silence and compassion at his side. “I didn’t even know your name until five minutes ago.”

“Oh, darling,” Leticia whispers.

Without any warning, Lorenz is crying. Like someone had flipped a switch, or snapped their fingers: one second he’s composed, the next he’s slapping a hand over his mouth to keep from sobbing into the receiver, tears welling up and spilling down his cheeks. He’s not entirely silent, though he tries; but he can hear sniffling through the phone, and the knowledge that his mother is crying on the other end of the phone paradoxically helps to steady his nerves.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he can speak past the knot in his throat. “I’m sorry, I should have reached out sooner—”

“No, no, I won’t hear it. It isn’t your fault, my dearest, do you understand me?” She excuses herself a moment and faintly in the background he can hear her blowing her nose. The mental image is so endearing, so normalizing, that he can’t help smiling as he wipes his own drippy nose with a handkerchief. “I should have been the one to reach out. Especially lately, with your stint in the news spotlight…”

Lorenz winces. “I hope you don’t think ill of me.”

“Think _ill_ of you? Goodness, not at all. I’m incredibly proud of you, my love. So, so proud.”

Just like that, the lump is back in the base of his throat. He can’t swallow past it, can hardly breathe around its weight. In his ear, his mother carries on, gracefully assuming the burden of conversation.

“Of course I don’t pretend to know the particulars of your life, but the minute I saw your name in the paper last year I’ve been following your story. The public-facing one, that is.” She pauses to take a steadying breath. “I’ve missed so much, but I’ve been trying to catch up through the news, and that lovely article in _OUT_… now I look even more foolish, for failing to get in contact. I suppose I didn’t want to bother you. You always seemed so busy, a proper business man.”

“I don’t blame you,” Lorenz manages to get out. “You don’t—didn’t even know me.”

“I’d like to,” is the quiet response. “Very much.”

“As would I.” Lorenz turns and faces the imposing facade of his father’s house, looming over him like a spectre. For the first time in a long time, it holds no power over him, its thrall dissolved like sand crushed beneath his heel. “Is it presumptuous to ask if we could meet? In person?”

“Presumptuous? Not at all. To see you with my own eyes would be… a miracle.” There is another emotional pause. “I don’t want to take you away from Leicester with elections almost upon us—”

“In fact, I would prefer it,” Lorenz interrupts her. “I’m sorry, that was abrupt. I… there are things… well. There is much to say, and not a lot of time to say it. The media circuit does not have the whole story, shall we say.”

“That is likely for the best. I have always preferred to hold onto my anonymity, where I can.”

“If I had my druthers, I would have maintained my privacy from the beginning. Unfortunately that is no longer possible.” He heaves a sigh and begins the trek back up the drive to the front door. “I have a press conference tomorrow that I am… not looking forward to.”

A soft hum of sympathy. “I assume it has something to do with your recent promotion.”

“Yes, among other things. Political things.” He sighs briskly. “Well. I’ll get it over with, and then I think I should like to take a small vacation. Not immediately, I don’t want to impose or assume—”

“Oh, I wish you would! I’ll have to speak to my wife, but I’m certain we can have you come stay with us for a little while.”

Lorenz’s heart trips and then soars. “Your… your wife?”

“That’s right.” Leticia sounds like she’s smiling. “Her name is Anja. We have a home together in Brigid, with two of her children from a previous marriage and a third we adopted two years ago.”

His chest feels strangely constricted. “And you’re certain I wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Completely certain. I’ve spoken to her at length about you, about how much I wished to reconnect.” She stops to take a breath, as though gathering her thoughts. “You are my son, Lorenz. I know that many years separate us, and that you likely don’t even remember me—but I have never stopped loving you with my whole heart. To have you… pardon.” A moment stretches out as she collects herself, reconstructing around the tremors in her voice. “To have you in my life again is a gift I never expected to receive. And I want to make up for the lost time, if you’ll let me.”

“Of course,” he whispers, on the verge of tears again. “It would be my honor.”

><><

_Election night, offices of the Riegan campaign. _

“They’re conducting a _what_?”

“An investigation,” Hilda says crisply, handing him her phone. “Not that they’ll find anything. Lorenz was recording his entire conversation with his father. Beyond that, he has mountains of hard evidence to protect himself from being accused of foul play. And a damn good lawyer.”

Claude accepts her phone with a reluctant hand, dreading what he’ll find. The past week has been a maelstrom, only some of it work-related, and with the polls closing in just a few hours he doesn’t know if he has enough space in his brain for more. But it’s about Lorenz, so he has no choice. He has to know.

_Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, recently appointed CEO of his father’s flagship company, Gloucester Technologies, has entered into an investigation by local Derdriu authorities for his suspicious rise to power. Derdriu Police Department was tightlipped on the subject, but given the statement given by Gloucester at a press junket last week, it is hardly surprising that his replacement of his father would come under scrutiny. _

_This changing of the guard at Gloucester Technologies, a world-renowned leader in technological solutions for corporate security and advancement, came on the heels of Gloucester senior’s untimely heart attack. The company announced his resignation and his son’s subsequent promotion in the same breath, and since then has seen a great deal of internal shifting under the hands of its new CEO. Two high-ranking executives have left the company in the last week, and while Gloucester and his team were quick to replace them with promising candidates, key players in the Derdriu business sector have been keeping a close eye on the comings and goings at Gloucester Tech: once a giant, now perhaps a peer, or even a rival. _

_Amidst this turmoil, Gloucester opened up at a press junket about his personal life. In a move that some have called unprofessional and inappropriate, he revealed that his relationship with political ingenue Claude von Riegan, billed by the press and the public as a longstanding romantic partnership, was a fabrication. His words have been hotly debated in the tabloids since the announcement, their ambiguity giving way to scrutiny and speculation. This culminated in the investigation now being spearheaded by Detective Rangeld of the DPD, who intends to ascertain whether the supposed ‘heart attack’ suffered by Gloucester’s father, Arthur H. Gloucester, was indeed accidental and not in someway exacerbated by Lorenz H. Gloucester for his personal gain. _

The article goes on in much the same way, but Claude can’t read another word. He hands the phone back and turns away, bracing his hands on his desk.

“He didn’t _do_ anything,” he says at last into the expectant silence. It weighs on him like chains, cold and heavy and merciless, and is not alleviated by the click of Hilda’s heels or the gentle touch of her hand to his spine. “He’s _innocent_.”

“Like I said before,” Hilda says gently, “the evidence is on his side.”

“And what about the law?”

“Claude—”

“I need a minute, Hil. Please.”

He can see her reflection in the window-glass. Outside it’s dark, well past seven in the evening, and it’s like he’s looking into a leaded mirror, watching the play of emotions across her face. Frustration, sympathy, acceptance. She drops her hand and turns, leaving the room on light feet.

Claude looks at his phone lying facedown on the desk. He’s been trying not to follow the polling too closely for reasons he can’t fully articulate—partially superstition, and partially an attempt not to stress over something he can no longer control. He’s done all he can. Now it’s in the people’s hands. But his phone not only holds the polling results as they trickle in; it also holds the number of the man he loves. The man who’s been ignoring his texts and calls for a week.

_What’s one more try? _

He turns it over and instinctively cringes. His campaign manager has been sending him updates every quarter-hour, and the most recent one shows him half a borough’s worth of votes behind his opponent. _Plenty of night left_, he reminds himself, dismissing the notifications with a flick of his thumb.

Another text pops up, previously hidden by the storm of notifications from his manager and social media. A text from Farid.

[_Good luck tonight, cousin. I’ll be watching the news. Regardless of the outcome, you know that I support you._]

Appropriately vague, for something that could easily be traced or uncovered by investigators at some point in the future, should the worst happen. But Claude can read between the lines. _My offer is still open to you. _He sighs and flicks that notification away, too. He’ll deal with his cousin later.

His message thread with Lorenz has been pretty one-sided this week. In fact, the last time Lorenz texted him was to let him know he was almost ready, the day Claude had picked him up from his apartment to drive into the country. In hindsight, Claude can’t help overanalyzing everything about that day, the night before. Had Lorenz already made his decision, even then? Even as he crawled into Claude’s bed, even as they made love—

He’s abruptly struck with the memory of Lorenz weeping silently, overwhelmed, and Claude wants to throw something. Chuck his phone across the room—buzzing with yet another text from his campaign manager—or maybe punch a hole in the desk. Equally inadvisable, considering it’s made of solid oak, but the heart wants what it wants. He flexes his fingers and watches his knuckles bulge beneath the skin.

_It’s probably best if you don’t call me again. _

His phone rattles on the desk. He just won the Tenpine district in the eastern part of Riegan County, a borough that had been on the fence all the way up til the end. He’s officially pulled ahead. So why doesn’t he feel anything?

There’s a tap on the door. “Claude—”

“I know. I saw.”

“No, I mean… you should probably get ready to go soon. We need to be at the Roundtable in half an hour.”

Dammit. _Pull yourself together, von Riegan_. He swipes his notecards from his desk. Two sets. One for his concession speech, one for his acceptance. He doesn’t usually like to rely on notecards, but he’s been putting off writing these and they aren’t as fresh and sizzling in his mind as he would like. Something about losing his practicing partner made it more difficult to start.

“You’re almost to the finish line,” Hilda says as he shrugs on his suit coat. It’s a surprisingly gentle reassurance, coming from her. “If you can stick it out a few more hours, you can go home and fall into bed and forget all about it for a few hours.”

“What if I skipped the final tally?” he quips, only half-joking. He double-checks his pockets: keys, chapstick, notecards. “Let’s go, before I second-guess myself.”

“Only second?” Hilda teases, holding the door for him.

“Second hundredth, maybe.” He plucks his coat from the hook on the wall and heads out into the damp summer night, Hilda on his heels.

His phone, abandoned on the desk, lights up with another text.

_[Hartford votes Riegan by a margin of two hundred and thirty-four. You’re in the lead.]_

The screen goes dark, and stays dark for a long time.

><><

_A week prior. _

“So that’s what you meant by _not looking forward_ to it.”

Lorenz leans back against the couch and shuts his eyes. “Was it completely awful?”

His mother hums thoughtfully, as though she’s gathering her words together in a tidy little row. She’s very well-spoken, he’s learned over the course of a few phonecalls; she puts all the jilted Roundtable old guard to shame, his father included. “It was… vague. Perhaps too vague. But you spoke clearly and forcefully, without apology, and that is something to be respected.”

Lorenz swallows. “It was maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Harder than coming out on live television?” It’s not scolding, nor mocking, but a gentle tease that tugs reluctantly at the corners of his mouth.

“_That_ was an accident.”

“You’ve gotten better at forethought, at least.”

“Lysithea—my PR agent—wrote that part of the statement.” He heaves a sigh, trying to ignore the churning nerves embroiled in his stomach. “It was partially true.”

Another curious hum. Not pressing, only letting him know she’s there, on the other end of the line. Listening.

“Truthfully the idea was Lysithea’s, to begin with. Claude and I agreed it would be a useful stopgap, until I could be sure Father would no longer try to… interfere in my life.” The pause he takes to breathe in is dead silent. “Unfortunately things didn’t go quite as planned, thus my announcement at the press conference.”

“Do you love him?” Leticia asks abruptly.

Lorenz flinches where he lays sprawled out on the couch, staring up at the vast white ceiling overhead. “Well.” He swallows, tries to laugh a little, but it comes out rusty and affected. “Is it that obvious?”

“Call it a mother’s intuition. Forgive the cliche, I’ve missed out on years of saying that.”

He cracks an honest smile to the empty room, eyelids bright and burning. “Forgiven.”

“I’m guessing the lines began to blur behind the scenes of your little _pas de deux_, hmmm?”

“They were always a little blurry, I think.” He heaves himself off the couch, sorry sack that he is, and slopes toward the kitchen to pour himself a glass of red. He thinks he’s earned it, after the day he had. “At least, on my end. I think I’ve fancied him since before I even knew I liked men.”

“He is _very_ handsome.”

“Isn’t he?” Lorenz sighs. It bubbles up out of him—he can’t help it—smiling and staring into empty space as he hovers like a lovesick fool with his hand above the wine cooler door. “He always has been, but recently he’s really… grown up.”

“I suppose you never considered telling him any of this.”

“I… I didn’t want to overcomplicate things.” Lorenz swallows and opens the cooler, fumbling his way back into reality. “Though I suppose sleeping together had already done that—”

“Lorenz!”

“I’m sorry, was that too much?”

“Oh please, darling, I’m not upset about _that_. You were _sleeping together_ and you didn’t want to _complicate things_?”

“It was—purely physical! On his part!” Lorenz yelps, hot in the face. He struggles one-handed with the corkscrew before giving up and tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear to finagle the damn thing open. “He’s got a great deal more experience than I have, it was just… just a lark. It wasn’t serious.”

“It was serious for you, though, wasn’t it,” his mother says softly. Lorenz says nothing, biting his lip savagely as he pries the cork free of the bottle. “Oh, my dear boy. You deserve to be treated like the prince you are.”

The cork comes free suddenly with a terrifically loud _ponk_. Lorenz winces and sets the corkscrew aside. “I… well, it’s funny you should say that—”

“Do you want to know what I think, dear?”

“Always—er, Mother.” His tongue trips over the word, not quite used to addressing her directly. She laughs softly in his ear but doesn’t chide him for his awkwardness.

“I think you should tell him how you feel.”

His chest tightens like a fist around his heart. He concentrates on pouring the wine as quietly as possible and sets both glass and bottle silently on the counter. “I think the time has long passed for that.”

“Why? Because you’ve made a spectacle of yourself and your relationship to the public? I think you have forgotten the importance of privacy, my dear. You don’t need to write his name in the clouds for the whole city to read. Just a message. A voicemail. So he knows he isn’t so alone.”

Lorenz crumbles briefly against the onslaught before rallying again. “Even if such a thing were possible, he wouldn’t believe me. After today? He’ll only think I’m trying to gain something.”

“Such as what? His trust? His love and respect?”

“Mum—Mother…”

“Oh, no, I like that very much, actually,” she says, dialing back the inquisition for a brief moment of motherly respite.

Lorenz brings the glass to his nose, fingers cupped delicately around the stem, and breathes in the dark, acidic, sharply floral aroma. An Acheron vintage. Upsettingly good, for how annoying the man himself is. How he got himself elected to represent Gloucester County last season is beyond him.

“I do love him,” Lorenz says at last, fortified. “Right now it feels like I always will. But I need… space. He is navigating a whole new political sphere, focusing on his career, and I do not wish to detract from that.”

“I don’t think anyone would accuse you of _detracting_, darling. You painted yourself the villain for his benefit.”

“I hope it works,” he says morosely into his glass. “Otherwise it was all for naught.”

“Does he have a backup plan, if he loses the elections?”

He thinks of the King of Almyra, of the man his father was, and is, and tries not to laugh a strangled, hyena-like laugh. “He has a few options, yes.”

“And do you?”

Lorenz blinks. “Sorry?”

“If he loses, and your act of self-sacrifice was _for naught_, as you put it. What is your plan?”

“I… well…” He feels limp all of a sudden, a puppet with his strings cut. He hasn’t allowed himself to think of that possibility. “I’ll just carry on, I suppose. Do the best that I can with the family business. Make it something I’m proud to be a part of.”

His mother laughs in his ear. “Where have I heard _that_ before.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs. “I was fed similar rhetoric from your father, even in the early days of our marriage. He left our honeymoon three days early to coordinate a merger or some such thing—I forget the details. Suffice it to say, he was more married to his work than he ever was to me.” She pauses, perhaps waiting for him to respond, but he feels too sick to his stomach to speak. “I say this with only love in my heart, dearest. I don’t want you falling into the same trap. There is more to life than work.”

Lorenz swallows, and swallows again. He’s suddenly lost his appetite for wine. He pushes the glass away and leans against the counter, head pressed to the crook of his elbow like a turtle trying to escape into its shell. Except he has no shell, and he can’t quite bring himself to hang up on her, even though his heart is racing unpleasantly and his hands are sweating fit to drop the phone to the floor.

“Lorenz?” Her voice filters through, distorted as though from deep underwater. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out. “Or… I will be.”

There is another long silence, heavy with unspoken guilt. “Perhaps I was too flippant. I’ve had nearly thirty years to overcome the stain he left on my life. I didn’t mean to compare you to him. You are your own man, strong and brave and wonderful, and I’m so glad you’ve managed to escape his grasp.”

Never in his life—not since he was very small, at any rate—has he longed so fiercely to crawl into his mother’s arms. The impulse wells up in his throat, choking him, and it takes some time to find the thread of his thoughts and wind it around the spindle of coherency. “You’re right. As much as I detest it, he raised me with certain… values… that I am still trying to shake off. I’m… I have a therapist,” he blurts out. “I’ve perhaps been a bit lax about making our appointments, but I have one scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Good. That’s good. Therapy helped me a lot, when I was first… on my own.” Leticia clears her throat softly. “Would it be… intruding? If I were to come visit you? I know you’ve spoken of taking a vacation, but with so much going on perhaps it would be better if I came to you.”

Lorenz swallows a few times, gathering his composure. “Would you… are you not busy yourself? I read an article…”

“It won’t kill my business to take a long weekend away. In fact, I daresay it would do me good. I haven’t been to Leicester in a very long time.” A pause. “Think it over, and let me know what you decide. I’ll be here for you regardless.”

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I’ll bid you _adieu_ now, darling, but remember: sometimes, things aren’t quite as dire as they seem.”

><><

_The present, the Roundtable conference hall._

It’s an old Leicester tradition, the final tally. Even though the election results are usually indisputable by the time the polls close, the candidates gather on the Roundtable floor while the current Chairman reads off the votes of each borough. Claude has watched the live broadcasts plenty of times over the years, but this is the first time he’s been on this side of the cameras.

It’s more unnerving than he thought it would be.

“Preston Borough to Claude von Riegan, three hundred and sixty votes to one hundred and twelve.”

Chairman Andres has such a particularly dull, droning tone of voice that Claude can’t help wondering if he practiced it every night in front of a mirror growing up. Every announcement is read slowly and painstakingly, each word grating at the back of his skull like a rasp. The polite golf clap that follows each sentence digs his nails into the palms of his hands, a desperate bid for composure.

“Hartford Borough to Claude von Riegan, five hundred and seventy-eight votes to three hundred and eighty-five.”

He tries to catch Hilda’s eye across the sea of cameras and mics propped in his direction. She’s standing on the opposite end of the floor with the other PA’s in attendance, head bowed in quiet conversation, finger to the headset in her ear. He wonders who she’s talking to.

“Thatcher Township to Claude von Riegan, one thousand five hundred and twenty-two votes to three hundred and ten.”

There are twenty boroughs and eight townships that make up Riegan County, all of varying sizes. As far as his muddled mind can make out, there is no rhyme or reason to the reading of votes. The next two counties go to his opponent, and the two after that to him.

He already knows he’s won, unofficially; his campaign manager whispered it into his ear ten minutes before final tally, and he’d run the numbers himself as they drove. Somehow it hasn’t settled, yet. He still feels as if he stands upon a great precipice, waiting for the realization to wash over him and drag him out to sea.

“Derring Township to Claude von Riegan, thirty-five votes to two.”

A very small town, that one. He remembers visiting it, greeting the townspeople one by one, learning their names, shaking their hands. The majority of the population was made up of retirees, spread out across the dwindling town like a patchwork quilt missing half its squares. He had promised them a revitalization project. Economic stability. An influx of young families to bring life and growth to a town limping along on its last legs. The memory stirs him a little, straightens his shoulders, puffs his chest. For the first time all night the smile on his face is genuine.

“Jameson Borough to Claude von Riegan, one hundred and twelve votes to zero.”

His jaw almost drops at that. A unanimous vote was almost unheard-of. The last time a borough has voted completely in favor of a candidate was the first year elections had been held at all. Belloway Township, a small seaside plot of land just south of Derdriu’s bustle, had voted unanimously to elect Judith Daphnel to the Riegan seat.

She had won the elections that year. She’d turned it down.

“Galloway Township to Claude von Riegan, two thousand six hundred and forty-four votes to one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.”

He wonders if she’s watching now. Most likely she and his father are sat on the couch in the living room, half-watching the television and discussing the results between them. He wonders if she approves of him now. If she’s proud of him. He wonders what his grandfather would think, and his throat gets a little tight.

He wonders if Lorenz is watching.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Leicester Alliance,” booms the Chairman suddenly, startling him out of his head and into the present, “it is my great honor to present the next Councilman for the seat of County Riegan: Claude von Riegan.”

There is applause. There is cheering. There are reporters shouting questions and flash-bulbs going off in his face, blinding him to the seat of people that seem to fill the Roundtable floor.

_Your speech_. _You need to give an acceptance speech. _

He puts his hand into his pocket and feels his notecards waiting. He’s unsure what expression he’s wearing—hopefully something approaching professional. He mounts the podium on legs that feel about as steady as shifting hand, rests his notecards on the polished wood, and smiles for the cameras.

><

“My friends, today I stand before you humbled and amazed. There were times during these past months that I wondered whether I would be granted the privilege of this moment, the privilege of your trust. A more complacent person would take this as assurance that such trust has been earned—but I am not that kind of man.

“I am still largely unknown to many of you. To others, I have been more of a headline than a leader. I know that I am a risk, and I know that you took a gamble on me. Having met you and your families, having seen your homes and listened to your hopes for the future, I understand what that gamble really was: not a gamble at all, but an investment. I swear to you, upon the honor of the office you have so graciously accepted me to take, that this future, our future, will be full of prosperity and change.

“To build a better future, we cannot forsake the lessons of the past. In many ways I feel as though I am taking part in a family legacy; but I will not rest on the laurels of those who came before. Instead I ask that you come forward and rise with me, taking my hand so we can usher in progress, side by side. The past has laid the foundation, and it is up to us, together, to build upward.

“I know I bear the name of this County, but I am determined to earn it with my own hands. The way I see it, my victory today is a chance—a chance to prove myself worthy of your trust. By electing me to represent you, you have welcomed me into your towns, your homes, your families. And, as family, I promise to honor that bond. If sacrifices must be made, we will make them together; if there is joy to be found, we will partake in it together. Tonight, it is not only I who will be celebrating—it will be all of us, as one.

“After all, there is very little a man can hope to accomplish on his own. At the end of the day, a leader is as human and as fallible as any of us. It is with family and community, with respect and trust, with empathy and love that we can break down the walls in our way. True leadership is not merely doing what’s right, or speaking grandly; it is listening, and accepting, and believing.

“By investing in people, and investing in each other, Riegan County—the economy and the workers supporting it—will finally reap what has long been sowed.

“It is my honor, and graciously granted privilege, to represent you as Councilman for Riegan County. Thank you.”

Lorenz mutes the television but doesn’t turn it off. It’s been an hour since the final tally live broadcast, and now the news is a rampant carousel, recycling the salient points of the ceremony. On the screen, Claude smiles beatifically and lifts his hand to silent applause. He’s unfairly handsome, if a bit tired-looking; to be expected, Lorenz thinks magnanimously. His dark hair is slicked into artful, tidy waves, his dark suit fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and trim waist. Someone, probably Hilda, had bullied him into a tie. It sits just slightly askew at the base of his throat, a stripe of dark green that echoes the verdant glister of his eyes.

“You need to stop that,” he mutters, rolling over onto his back and dragging his blanket with him.

He’d tried not to watch the final tally at all, but curiosity got the better of him, and so he watched it with Ferdinand on the phone to keep him company, bundled into his pajamas with a glass of wine and a half-melted pint of ice cream on the coffee table like some sort of half-baked chick flick knock-off. He spent most of the broadcast watching Claude. He seemed so calm and composed, so unaffected by the energy in the conference hall. Lorenz envied him. Even with the numbers rolling in from social media, hearing the boroughs announced out loud one by one was heart-stopping.

And his speech. So heartfelt, delivered in that rich, warm voice that always makes Lorenz feel as though he’s stepping into a warm bath—or into warm, sturdy arms. He shivers and tugs the blanket up to his chin. The television continues to flicker silently, spilling blue-white light across the floor and against the ceiling. With the window shades left open to the glittering Derdriu night, he feels as though he’s encased in glass, or a crystalline cube of ice. Chilled and sluggish, exhausted by the insomnia that now plagues his nights, throat always tight and teeth forever clenched despite his attempts to relax. He touches his own cheek, trying to ease the tightness of his jaw.

_If sacrifices must be made, we will make them together; if there is joy to be found, we will partake in it together. Tonight, it is not only I who will be celebrating—it will be all of us, as one._

He sniffles a little, no longer embarrassed to be crying alone in his flat. He’s done more than enough of it this past week, certainly. He’s thrilled that Claude won, relieved that his dramatics—as Ferdie called them—weren’t wasted. Claude won. He _won_, and he accepted the position, and everything is perfect. He swallows and wipes wetness from his cheeks. _Everything is perfect. _

The elevator _dings_ unexpectedly and Lorenz freezes where he lies. Who on earth could be here? Shamir and Catherine typically didn’t return once they’d left for the evening, and Lysithea is the only other person with a keycard—

“Lorenz?” comes a soft voice. A soft, rich, warm voice, echoed by the _shuff_ of shoes against the hall rug and the _clink _of keys being left on the polished glass end table next to the elevator doors.

Lorenz covers his face with his hands. _Oh no. Not now, why is he here, why did I not think to deactivate his keycard access, what is he **doing here**—_

“Lorenz, are you home?”

The couch faces away from the entryway, giving him a little bit of leeway, but he can hear Claude’s footsteps coming nearer, growing muffled as they reach the area carpet that delineates the sunken sitting area from the rest of the flat. In a flustered hurry he reaches for the damp cloth he’d set on the coffee table for his headache and plasters it over his puffy eyes.

Fabric brushes the back of the couch. “Hey,” Claude says softly. “You awake?”

“Please go away,” Lorenz says, trying to speak steadily. The sound of Claude’s voice so close is already weakening his resolve. “I’m a fright.”

A gentle huff of something that _could_ be laughter. The _nerve_. “I’ll leave if you really want me to, but I… I was hoping I could talk to you first.”

Lorenz should turn him away right now. The last thing Claude needs is to be caught visiting the man who abused his trust so thoroughly—Lorenz has done enough damage to his reputation. But when he opens his mouth to refuse, what comes out is, “I don’t want you to look at me.”

“All right,” Claude says, as though it’s a completely reasonable request and not the deranged ramblings of a lovesick fool. “I won’t.” A pause. “Can I stay, then?”

“I suppose,” Lorenz mumbles. He lifts the edge of his cold compress and watches the shape of Claude move around the end of the couch and perch against the arm, keeping his back to Lorenz. He’s shed his suit coat and his tie, and the light from the silent TV plays harshly against the bleached-out cream of his shirt, making his shoulders seem narrow and slumped. “Well?” Lorenz says, a bit waspishly. “What did you want to talk about?”

Claude tips his chin to the side a little so that the barest outline of his brow and jawline is illuminated, limned in electric light like a neon angel uplifted into sainthood. A curl falls over his ear and remains there, unnoticed. “I wanted to… apologize.”

Lorenz drops the compress back into place. He can’t look at him right now—it feels too raw, too immediate. He’s forgotten the power Claude holds over him just existing in the same room. “Apologize for what?”

“I treated you poorly. I can see that now. I made certain… assumptions about our relationship. I let myself give in to certain desires, regardless of how you felt. It was unfair of me, and I’m sorry.”

Lorenz peels the cloth back again to stare at him, at the press of his softened shoulder blades against his stiff-ironed shirt. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about—this! Us! This distance you’ve created. I’ve been thinking about it all week—obsessing, really—and some things have grown clear to me. I just wanted you to know that if I… if I hurt you, if I ever made you feel like you weren’t respected or appreciated, I’m sorry.”

“Claude, I truly do not think we’re on the same page here. This _distance_ is for _your_ good, not mine.”

“That’s what worries me! You never put yourself first; you never make demands, even when you should. You’ve spent the entirety of our charade acting as though you’re trying to make up for the sin of inconveniencing me, and I don’t understand why.”

“I almost cost you your election!” Lorenz exclaims. “How dense do you have to be? What does it matter, anyway—you’ve won. We both got what we wanted.”

“Well maybe—” Claude’s voice hitches and drops a few decibels. “Maybe what I wanted changed along the way.”

Lorenz frowns and drops the compress on the table entirely, rubbing his ear. “I’m sorry, what? I can’t hear what you're saying faced away like that.”

“You _asked_ me not to look at—”

“Find a middle ground!” Lorenz snaps. “Isn't that your specialty, _Councilman_?”

Claude stands abruptly, turning to face the television and the tall windows beyond, pillars of glass that frame the Derdriu skyline beyond. “I thought we agreed we’d be honest with each other, so that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Are you still upset with me for that press junket?” Lorenz demands, ire well and truly pricked to life. It moves hot and itchy under his skin as he sits up, brushing the blanket away to pool in his lap. “Now that you’ve won your election you think you can sit on your high horse and pretend you didn’t need my help at all?”

“Of course I need you-your help. I’ve always needed it, and I’ve never made a secret of that!” He shoves his hands into his hair and pulls, as though he’s both the rider and the horse, tugging the reins to keep from turning his head towards Lorenz. “I’m just trying to figure out why you thought we needed to cut all ties, all right? Just because you—_we_ revealed some things to the public doesn’t mean we need to continue that little pantomime out behind closed doors.”

“Ah. So that’s the reason for your bizarre apology.”

“It wasn’t given insincerely! Forgive me for trying to find some sort of reason for your sudden coldness when we—” He cuts himself off and drops his hands to his sides. His hair is well and truly askew, now, a curly tangle starting to spring free from its prison of pomade. It flops over his eyes as he bows his head. “I thought we were close. Closer than close.”

“Because we fucked?” Lorenz bites out. Hating himself for saying it so cruelly. “What a surprise, I always considered you the _no strings attached_ type.”

He regrets saying it as soon as it leaves his mouth. It’s just on the wrong side of too much. Claude’s shoulders hunch in further like he’s flinching from a blow, and the frustration in his spine and the clench of his hands becomes something sharper, more frantic. More afraid. Lorenz opens his mouth to apologize, but can’t quite form the words.

“If you hate me so much,” Claude says lowly, “at least do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye when you tear me down.” And he turns, deliberately and slow, and looks at him.

Lorenz feels frozen in place, as if he were made of marble. Claude looks so unspeakably _sad_. The light from the city and the television filter over him as bright as lurid daylight, exposing every detail to Lorenz’s eyes: his drawn mouth, the bruises beneath his eyes, his sallow, grief-stained cheeks. His eyes are dry at least, but that’s no mercy. It only means he’s already stepped across that stage of grief and beyond, to a place where Lorenz cannot follow.

“I don’t hate you,” Lorenz whispers. The words seem to hit a stone wall and bounce off, ineffectual. “I’m sorry, I can’t explain it…”

“Try,” Claude says through lips that hardly even move to form the word. “If I was ever your friend at all, _try_.”

“I made… a mistake.” He swallows past the lump of fear in his throat. _Nothing left to lose—not even him. Him, I’ve already lost. _“I let myself stray, and believe in the lies we were telling, and… and I’m not strong enough to carry on like that anymore. I’m sorry. I can’t be what you need. I can’t be your friend and watch you—watch you fall in love, and sleep with other people. I can’t pretend I’m not desperately in love with you every second of the day.” His throat closes up and for a moment his voice betrays him, ground to silent dust beneath the pestle of the truth. The entire truth, for the first time in months. “Your success,” he whispers, when Claude does not react, “was my only aim. And you achieved it, so please. Let me have some peace.”

“Lorenz….” Claude begins at last, sounding as though all the air has been beaten from his lungs.

“I know it was foolish of me. I shouldn’t have let myself—but I did. Maybe even before any of this.” Lorenz stares at his lap, eyes hot and dry and prickly, and lets the words come. Funny how once he opened the gates, they refuse to stop spilling out of him, at first a trickling stream and now a torrent. “And I thought, somehow, that casting myself as the villain in your story would make you believe it. That you would want nothing more to do with me. But of course that never would have worked—you are too kind. Too conscientious.” Tears well up in his voice and behind his eyelids, and he smothers his face behind his hands. “Damn your gentle heart, and damn my_self_ for falling for it.”

The minutes seem to stretch out endlessly, agonizing, but it can’t be more than a couple of heartbeats before Claude is drawing near again, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the couch beside him. Turned away, just a little, to give him the illusion of privacy. “You know, I always considered myself a little bit ruthless,” he says to the room at large. “I forgot that you have that ruthless streak, too—but only ever bent towards yourself.”

Lorenz sniffles, snotty and embarrassing. Claude passes him a handkerchief.

“You out-maneuvered me.”

Lorenz blows his nose noisily. “And _you_ underestimated me.”

“I did. Rest assured I’ll never make that mistake again.” Claude takes a deep breath, eyes cast to the floor. “Can I look at you?”

“Haven’t you already?” Lorenz snips. He dabs fruitlessly at his eyes. Strange, how telling the truth has lightening the load weighing down his chest, even without any hope of reciprocity.

“Yes, well,” Claude murmurs, “a lot can change in sixty seconds.” He shakes his head quickly, like a dog shaking off water, or a man shaking off his fear, and slips off the couch to kneel on the floor. “You’re not the only one who made a mistake,” he says, even as Lorenz blinks down at him in shock. “I was afraid of pushing you too quickly, and instead I neglected you.”

“Neglected—what? Claude, what are you doing?” he stammers, watching in paralyzed befuddlement as Claude takes each of his hands in turn.

“I’m apologizing. This time for something I know I’ve done wrong, which is my failure to tell you I loved you from the minute I realized it.”

Lorenz thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. “What?”

“I love you,” Claude says, firm and sure, eyes locked with his. Lorenz doesn’t think he could look away even if he wanted to. “I love you, I love you, I love you—” each gentle declaration punctuated with a kiss to the backs of Lorenz’s hands—“even when we argue I love you.”

“We’ve argued—quite a lot over the years,” Lorenz says faintly.

“And I’ve loved every minute of it. Well, almost every minute.” Claude winks, and Lorenz wonders if he’s somehow fallen asleep and is having an ice cream-fueled fever dream.

“I’m not quite certain I understand.”

“Then how can I explain it to you?” Another kiss, this one to the side of his wrist. Another to his palm, soft and warm and bristly.

Lorenz exhales and it sounds more like a punch to the gut than a sigh of relief. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, sweetheart?”

He closes his eyes. _Oh, that isn’t fair._ “Tell me… when you realized.”

“In school.” Claude laughs, a little bit shyly, ducking his head beneath the weight of Lorenz’s disbelief. “See, I _was_ telling Dorothea the truth. I just… I thought you were straight. And we were roommates, I didn’t want to… mess things up.”

“I don’t know that I would have taken it very well,” Lorenz admits. The shock is starting to thaw, giving way to something else. Relief. Anguish. Giddiness. “Claude…”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s a lot to spring on you at once, but.” Claude grips his hands more firmly, almost as though he’s shaking on it. “My mistake was in making you think I cared more about the election than about you. Than about _us._” Another kiss to his knuckles, eyes slanted up to maintain the thread of sincerity between them. “I’ve been unfair to you, and that’s going to stop. I’m going to do this right.”

Claude leans up on his knees then, moving toward him as if he’s angling for a kiss, but Lorenz instinctively pulls away.

“No—wait. I’m… I’m all puffy and terrible—”

“Oh, Lorenz,” Claude sighs, fond and resigned and amused all at once. “You’re beautiful all the time. _All_ the time.” This time when he leans in, Lorenz lets him—lets Claude pull him into his arms, tucking his tearstained face against his neck where his collar stands half-crumpled, a sail torn askew by a sudden gale. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Claude whispers, peppering kisses to his hair. “Don’t cry.”

“I’ve wasted so much time.” Lorenz wipes his face on his sleeve and rests his cheek on Claude’s shoulder, firm as a planted sapling, no intention of moving. “All this time, we could have…”

“Shh. None of that.” Claude strokes his fingers through Lorenz’s hair, through the long strands and beneath to the crisp, short fuzz of his undercut. Lorenz’s toes curl. “What’s done is done. We’re moving forward now, together. All right?”

Lorenz sniffs and nods, cheek scraping against the seam of Claude’s sleeve. “Agreed.”

“Hey, Lorenz?” Claude asks gently, nose tucked against the crown of his head. “Will you be my partner? For real this time.”

Lorenz huffs a little laugh and sits back, looking into his face. Claude’s eyes are suspiciously shiny, and his nose suspiciously pink, but he’s still the most handsome man Lorenz has ever seen. “Yes. Of course. It’s all I want.”

Claude sits up a little on his knees and brushes their lips together. More a question than a kiss. Lorenz answers it with a kiss of his own, hands tangling in the front of Claude’s shirt as he hauls him onto the couch. “I missed you,” he mumbles against Claude’s mouth, clumsy and saliva-slick, “I missed you so much—”

“Shhh.” Claude brushes his long hair back from his face, tucking it behind one ear, and feathers kisses to his cheek. “No more of that, we’re starting fresh.” Another kiss, slow and languid, his hands to Lorenz’s cheeks. “I’ll never leave your side again unless you ask.”

Lorenz buries a hand in his curly hair and leans his forehead against Claude’s. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Claude smiles and kisses him, kisses him until his lips are numb and tingling, until his jaw and throat are smeared with beard burn. He’s too exhausted to feel more than sluggishly aroused, but it doesn’t matter—he has Claude in his arms, in his lap, in his life. The outside world fades away, unimportant. Everything is narrowed down to a single bright point of light, a magnifying glass catching the light and focusing it to a pure and unadulterated sunbeam.

At some point the television is turned off, and the sky beyond the windows starts to lighten. Lorenz feels strange and strung-out, too tired to even purse his lips for Claude’s attentions. Claude laughs at him, fingers creeping along his ribs to tease him, but he’s hardly better off. Exhaustion makes him clumsy, giggly when their kisses slide askew of one another.

“Sorry,” Claude mumbles into his collar, palm to the center of his chest. His thumb draws little irregular circles over Lorenz’s breastbone, like he’s trying to draw over the shape of his heart beneath skin and bone. “I’m just so…”

Lorenz hums, both agreement and commiseration. “It’s nearly morning.”

“Ugh.” Claude rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes in a desperate bid for lucidity. “What day is it?”

“It’s Sunday.” Lorenz tugs idly at the front of his shirt, half-unbuttoned already, knuckles brushing the ribbed cotton of his undershirt. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

“As a matter of fact—” Claude stifles a yawn belatedly into the crook of his arm. “I have _very_ pressing plans that involve sleeping in, and then making love to my boyfriend until neither of us can walk straight.” He strokes his thumb along Lorenz’s puffy lower lip. “That is, if he’s amenable.”

“I am,” Lorenz whispers. “Very amenable.”

“Wonderful.” Moving clumsily, Claude manages to dismount from the couch and stand semi-upright. He shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way and holds out his hands. “C’mere, beautiful.”

Lorenz reaches up, and yelps as he’s pulled straight up off the couch. Before he can topple over, Claude is scooping one arm beneath his knees and, in a tremendous display of coordination and strength, picks Lorenz up bridal style. “_Claude!_”

“What? You’re tired. And I’ve always wanted to do this.”

Reluctantly won over, Lorenz tucks his head against Claude’s shoulder and tries to relax as Claude carries him, only slightly wobbly, from the living room to the master suite. The bed is embarrassingly rumpled, but Claude doesn’t seem to mind. He lays Lorenz down upon it, messy sheets and all, and strips out of the rest of his clothes without a care, climbing in beside him in only his boxer briefs.

With some effort, Lorenz tears his eyes away and wriggles out of his own shirt, leaving his leggings on. When he settles again, Claude is still propped up on one elbow watching. He blushes. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” Claude says simply. “I want to remember this. Seal it in my memory.” He reaches out with his free hand, stroking his knuckles against Lorenz’s cheek. “I love you.”

Lorenz captures his hand with his own and kisses the palm. “I love you, too.”

Eyes crinkled and soft, Claude leans down, brushing a kiss to Lorenz’s forehead as he pulls him into his arms. The breadth of his chest is better than the finest goose-down. Lorenz snuggles beneath his chin, warm and comfortable. Outside the window, the sky is growing steadily brighter: black to gray to lavender to rose, like a muted rainbow unfurled across the heavens.

They fall asleep this way at long last, curled together, hands entwined, watching the sun rise over a new city.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude asks a very important question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, we made it. I can't believe how fucking long this thing is (which I'm keenly aware of, because I just went through and fixed a bunch of minor inconsistencies throughout the first ten or so chapters). Thank you BOATLOADS to everyone for reading and commenting and kudos'ing, I'm very proud of this fic and I hope it brought some joy or at least some entertainment! 
> 
> If you've read this far as I was updating: holy shit, thank you. I'm a massive hypocrite and I HATE reading wips as they're in progress, I just want to shove the whole damn thing down my throat as quickly as possible, so blessings upon your house to the people who have read along faithfully. Hats off to you and also my firstborn child. If you're interested in seeing a shortlist of the edits I made, you can find them [here](https://twitter.com/rachebones/status/1245864317603303424?s=20)!
> 
> I won't have an author's note at the end, so follow me at @rachebones on twitter for more lorenz and claurenz love all day every day, and more fic!! Probably shorter than this one, for now, but no promises.

Wyvern Moon in the southern coastal region of Almyra is perhaps Lorenz’s favorite time of year. He’s only experienced it for half a day—technically an entire twenty-some hours, but the first half of those had been spent napping off a headache—but already he’s completely in love.

They are a little further south than the last time they’d come this way; a proper vacation, a whole week of it, renting a small cottage at the edge of a seaside village bustling with small-town commerce and color. Back home in Derdriu it is rainy, and foggy, and the wind blows cruelly off the sea in the evenings. But here it is still warm and balmy, and will be all through the rest of the year. Palm trees stud the white-sand coast, and the ocean is a clear, vivacious blue that sears the eye to look at when the sun is high.

At the moment the sun is winding down toward the horizon, and the sea is a rich cobalt, paler inland where the white sand climbs surfaceward beneath its jolly girth. There is a faint breeze teasing at his handsome layered sleeves and teasing at his hair where he’s tucked it behind his ear, but it’s pleasant rather than an irritation. He tips his head back to it and crosses one leg over the other, prompting a sigh from the man across from him as he withdraws his heeled foot from under the table.

“The waiter is coming with the check,” Lorenz chides in a velvet undertone. “You may feel me up when he is gone.”

Claude pouts and withdraws his wallet. “You never want to have any fun.”

“A blatant lie, Mr. von Riegan. I will not stand for such slander.”

“Hmm. But will you sit for it?” Claude murmurs slyly. His left hand drops to his thigh, outstretched along the edge of the pier where their table sits, and drums his fingers there as if in invitation. Lorenz rolls his eyes and looks away. “I guess that’s a no.”

“It’s a _maybe later_, darling,” Lorenz mutters, and picks up his wine glass. He’s had two already—it’s a _very_ good Almyran vintage he’s never heard of before—but he can’t bear to leave any behind, so he sips at it delicately as their waiter returns and accepts Claude’s card. When he leaves again, Claude slides his left hand enticingly across the table, eyes as big as saucers. Lorenz hides a smile behind his glass and reaches back.

“You’re beautiful,” Claude says softly. “Have I told you that today?”

“Many times.” Lorenz drains his glass and sets it down, leaning forward—carefully, to avoid dragging his sleeves through the remains of their dinner—to entwine his other hand with Claude’s. “But I confess I still like hearing it.”

“And I like telling you.” Claude lifts their hands to his lips, kissing Lorenz’s. He’s been letting his beard grow in longer, and it’s long enough now that the coarse hairs have softened into a gentler bristle, framing his lips in a very dashing manner. He lets Lorenz go after only a few kisses in deference to the public venue, but his eyes are warm and full of purpose that Lorenz can read clear as day. It sets his heart pounding, and he withdraws to cross his legs the other way, flush with wine and romance.

“Will you tell me what you have planned, now?” he asks, deferring the warmth in his veins to a more appropriate time. “Or is it still a mystery?”’

“Surely you can wait a little bit longer,” Claude wheedles. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Lorenz purses his lips. “I trust you.” It’s half declaration, half warning. Claude winks and straightens in his seat as their server returns. “For now.”

After signing off on the check with a flourish and a frankly obscene tip—one of Claude’s favorite pastimes—he stands and offers Lorenz his arm. “This way,” he says, tucking him in close to weave between the tables. Lorenz peers behind them to where the restaurant perches just at the edge of the water.

“Dry land is _that_ way, darling.”

“I know. We’ll return to it in due time.” Claude pats his hand where it’s resting on the strong slope of his own inner arm. “I thought you might like a close-up view of the sunset.”

The pier stretches out ahead of them, sturdy wood thrust into the belly of the shallow bay. Hills to either side enclose them from the worst of the offshore wind, and between their generous arms Lorenz can see the sun, darkening from gold to burnt sienna as it sinks grandly toward the far horizon. “That sounds nice,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. Claude had rather made it sound as though he had something more exciting up his sleeve than a walk and and a sunset.

Claude chuckles, as though he’s read his mind, but is kind enough not to call him on it.

Conversation dwindles, but Lorenz doesn’t think much of it. They’d spent half the day traveling and sleeping off the trip—a short flight, given they had started the morning at the Nader-Daphnel house—and he himself is slightly tipsy, content to join the peaceful quiet. The waves slap unhurriedly against the pylons underneath them, and occasional a gull keens brightly in the sky above. It is peaceful. Restful.

Toward the end of the pier a few boats are docked; recreational vessels, none particularly big. The biggest could generously be considered a very small yacht. It bobs at the end of the pier, gated off like the others to prevent vandalism. Lorenz’s eyes slide over it at first, writing it off as background noise right up until Claude lets go of his arm to finagle the lock.

“Claude!”

“What?” He glances over his shoulder innocently as the bolt slides free.

“What are you—we can’t _trespass_.”

“Who said it was trespassing?” He tosses a small silver key into the air and catches it again with a grin. “Don’t worry, it’s a rental. I don’t have room in my back garden to store it.”

A little embarrassed that he’d automatically assumed Claude was playing a prank, Lorenz accepts his hand docilely and steps up the ramp to the boat itself—and nearly jumps out of his skin to see a black-suited figure facing away toward the prow of the ship.

“Thanks, Shamir,” Claude says, and she turns around with a slight smirk, hair tousled by the sea breeze. Lorenz takes a breath and puts a hand to his rapidly beating heart. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Have a nice evening, boys.” She tips them a nod and departs, leaving the vessel entirely theirs.

“Doing all right?” Claude asks, pulling up the ramp and catching the lines as she casts them off the pier.

“I didn’t know you had your pilot’s license,” Lorenz replies instead of admitting he’s never been on a boat like this before. He blames the slight alarm in his chest on the wobbliness of his heels on the deck.

“I have a few,” Claude says casually. “I haven’t renewed my flying license but technically…”

Lorenz stares at him. “How is it possible that I’ve known you all these years, and still there are surprises to uncover?”

“I like to keep people on their toes.” Claude draws him in with a hand on his hip, rocking up slightly on his toes to bestow a whiskery kiss to the underside of his jaw. “You know all the most important things, beloved.”

“Being with you is certainly never boring.” Lorenz allows himself to be tempted into a proper kiss, hands on Claude’s shoulders, hips in Claude’s hands. He feels grounded, secure; steady enough to sway with the motion of the shallow waves that lap beneath their feet. Claude is sturdy as a tree against him. He licks into his mouth and gets a broad hand cupped beneath his bottom in return.

“As un-boring as this is,” Claude says at last, slightly breathless, “I _did _promise you a view of the sunset.”

“Right.” Lorenz steps back slightly, smoothing his [skirt](https://twitter.com/rachebones/status/1246161194085486598?s=19). It’s a short, colorful statement piece, made from thick floral jacquard like the hem of a magnificent tapestry. He felt secure enough wearing it to forego his usual compression shorts, and he hopes he won’t regret it; already he can feel himself getting hard in his sheer nylon tights, just from a little necking. “Where do you want me?”

Claude grins and takes his hand. “Here. Let’s get this baby out into open water.”

Inside the little cabin, an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne is waiting for them, as well as a cooler stocked with water bottles. Lorenz takes one of these and slips off his shoes, reclining on a window seat while Claude does whatever needs doing to get the vessel operational. Lorenz isn’t paying particularly close attention to that part; instead he’s watching as Claude shrugs out of his dinner jacket and drapes it over the back of the pilot’s chair, then rolls his sleeves tidily to the elbow. He looks almost stern and commander-like for a moment, peering through the glass as he takes them away from the pier and out into the bay. Then he glances over at Lorenz and grins, gleeful as a boy, and the illusion fades.

“What do you think?” he says one the burr of the engine has faded and they’ve left the coastline behind them. “Should we invest?”

“It is a surprisingly smooth ride,” Lorenz admits, quietly relieved, “but I’m not sure it’s practical.”

“Maybe just rentals now and then, for a lark. The Derdriu Pier has a nice selection. You should let me take you sailing sometime.” Claude does something to make the boat stay put—lowers the anchor? Does such a craft have an anchor?—and rises from his seat, hand extended in invitation. “C’mon, let me show you the front.”

Hidden til now by the considerable dashboard of the small yacht, Lorenz can see, as they exit the cabin and mount the steps leading to the roof, the prow of the vessel contains a small sitting area, with a pair of lounge chairs bolted to the polished wooden deck for stability. They aren’t quite wide enough for two grown men, but it’s chilly—Lorenz complains as such in a calculatedly petulant tone, and receives cooing and petting and a warm dinner jacket round the shoulders in return—and so they make do. Claude kicks his shoes off and sprawls with his legs practically hanging off either side, and Lorenz insinuates himself between them, humming his pleasure as Claude wraps his arms around his ribcage.

“How’s that?” Claude says, with a kiss to his hair.

“Perfect.”

The sunset _is_ very pretty. The sun has turned to molten red, staining the sea a coppery pink that folds between the sheets of butter-yellow light reflecting off the ocean’s surface. Lorenz weaves his fingers through Claude’s and tries to listen to the rumble of his voice as he talks about learning to sail from his father. But it’s a bit difficult to focus. There’s an odd shape pressing into his arm, as though there’s something in the inside pocket of Claude’s jacket, and the more he tries to ignore it the firmer it digs in until it’s all he can think about.

“What’s wrong?” Claude says, breaking off mid-anecdote as Lorenz wriggles free of his grasp.

“Sorry, continue, there’s just something poking me—”

Lorenz twists and finagles a hand into the inside pocket of Claude’s jacket, still draped around his shoulders. His fingers brush something hard and velvet-covered. A small, rounded box. His mouth is abruptly dry as dust.

“Ah,” Claude says. “That.”

“Claude—”

“Hang on. Fuck, I should’ve put it in my trouser pocket. Here.” Claude plucks it from Lorenz’s grasp and stands free of the lounge chair, gripping the box in one hand. The ring box. His eyes are bright and lively, and his mouth is smiling, but there’s a nervous tremor in his left hand that draws Lorenz’s eye like iron filings to a magnet. “I’m sorry, I had a whole… a whole thing prepared…”

They have talked about it before, of course. Of course they have. They’ve only been dating—truly, actually dating—for a year and a half, but they’ve been in love longer than that, and friends for years and years; Lorenz can’t imagine a life without Claude in it, and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that that feeling is mutual. The bumps along the way have been plentiful, but all of them weathered together, hand in hand, and each more manageable than the last. Claude has met, and delighted, Lorenz’s mother and her family; Lorenz has become as comfortable at the Daphnel-Barbarossa household as though it were his own, at ease with Nader’s big-hearted, bold-strokes personality and Judith’s quieter brand of fond affection.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet. And yet.

Claude is looking at him still, brow creased with worry, as though he’s waiting for Lorenz to protest, or decline. Lorenz realizes, rather abruptly, that he ought to do _something_. He has all the power here—and isn’t that a heady thought.

“Well all right then,” he says, lounging back with his hands braced on the cushion and one leg crossed smoothly over the other.

Claude just blinks at him, startled. “All right, what?”

“Let’s have the _thing_ you prepared.” He can’t quite keep his lips from twitching, and relief and giddy joy slowly dawns on Claude’s face. “Otherwise how am I meant to make an informed decision?”

“Well. Um. All right.” He slips the ring box into his pocket and pulls it out again, his free hand toying nervously with the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles. “Lorenz.”

“Yes, my love.”

Claude sighs—no, not a sigh. A long, relieved exhale, like he’s shifting the weight of the world from his shoulders to somewhere else, some untouchable place far from their little haven. Overhead, the sky is slowly darkening; it silhouettes Claude’s curly head in shades of periwinkle and gossamer as he slowly gets down on one knee.

“I wanted to wait til it was properly dark,” he says, “but I suppose the right time isn’t a _time_ at all. It’s a place. It’s _you_.” He puts a hand delicately around the bone of Lorenz’s ankle, teasing the knob of it until he succumbs and puts both feet flat on the deck and folds his hands in his lap expectantly. “As long as I’m with you, it’s always the right time.”

“But in the dark I wouldn’t have been able to see anything,” Lorenz says, bemused, as Claude takes his hand and holds it gently.

“That was… kind of the idea,” Claude admits. “Or well, not _you_ don’t being able to see, but. No one _else_ being able to see you. Us.” His smile wavers. “I know it’s been a point of difficulty for both of us, but especially for you. Being seen. Being visible in such a… a public, celebrity sort of way. And I wanted to make sure that it was just us out here, completely alone. I wanted to do this with you, and _only_ with you.”

Lorenz, despite himself, blinks back tears. It’s a consideration he’d never thought to make—not in regards to this. In regards to their daily life, they’ve been very careful to keep as much from the public eye as they can. Of course, it isn’t perfect; it only took a few weeks in office for people to notice Claude wasn’t as single as Lorenz had insisted he was only a month before. But thanks to Lysithea’s efforts, with coordination from Hilda and Shamir, any public outcry was kept to a minimum. Lorenz pulled a few strings and bought a few people’s loyalty, and the magazines that had been their most fervent pack hounds were suspiciously silent on the subject.

So that part of their life, at least, was somewhat protected. But it took Lorenz a rather long time before he stopped instinctively looking over his shoulder in the street, or turning off all the lights at night even when the window shades were drawn. Shamir is still on his payroll, and he has every intention of renewing her contract for a second year when the time comes. They do not go on dates to public venues in Derdriu, even now; tonight was a bit of an outlier, only because they were so far from home and Shamir had vetted the town and the restaurant thoroughly beforehand. Lorenz knows he’s paranoid, has been working through his PTSD with his therapist, but to hear Claude say out loud that he wanted to be _sure_ they were alone…

“I’m sorry for ruining your plans,” he whispers, throat tight. He knows he’s going to cry before Claude’s speech is over, but he’d like to postpone it for as long as he can; this mascara was _expensive_.

“You haven’t, sweetheart.” Claude lifts his hand and kisses the back of it, cheerful once again. “It was mostly for dramatic effect. We’re still very much alone, and I’m still very madly in love with you.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Lorenz murmurs. He sniffs delicately and pries an errant curl away from where the wind had trapped it in Claude’s long eyelashes.

“Lorenz.”

“Yes?”

“...Hellman Gloucester.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes, and the last bleeding bloom of sunset smears like oil paint as tears prickle determinedly to life. “Khalid,” he replies, and sniffles again. _I knew I should have brought a handkerchief._

“You know me better than anyone else in the world,” Claude says, serious now, “and that’s a strange and terrifying thing. I always keep my cards close to my chest, and I preserve every secret I can, lest it be used against me. But you… you slipped between my defenses somehow, when I wasn’t expecting it. And you’ve made quite a little home for yourself in my heart.” His thumb traces Lorenz’s knuckles almost mindlessly, a nervous tic, a habit that Lorenz has grown too fond of. “I love you, Lorenz. With every fiber of my being. From the moment you decided I was worth your time and energy, you’ve been my most loyal friend, tireless, honest even when it hurt, but never to the point of cruelty. You’ve made me a better leader, and a better man. When I picture the future, you’re always in it. At my side, in whatever capacity you choose. But I hope you’ll choose this one.” He lets go of Lorenz’s hand and flips open the box, a half-smile dimpling his left cheek. “Will you marry me?”

Lorenz can’t even see the ring through his tears. They welled up somewhere around _every fiber of my being_ and show no signs of stopping. “Yes,” he whispers, lifting his hands—to hide his face, to wipe the tears away before they can track mascara down his cheeks—but Claude produces a clean handkerchief seemingly from nowhere and then Lorenz just cries harder.

“Take your time, love,” Claude says, half-laughing, half teary-eyed himself. “You don’t have to answer right away—”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” Lorenz exclaims, voice thick. He dabs furious at his face and wipes his nose and finally flings his arms around Claude’s neck, heedless of the flowy fabric of his sleeves blowing every which way in the breeze. “My answer is yes, yes, always, a thousand times, _yes_.”

He can feel Claude laughing more than he hears him. It rumbles through his chest and warms him from the inside out until he feels like he could burst with happiness. “I can’t believe I fumbled that so badly,” Claude mumbles. Lorenz can feel his closed fist pressed against his spine, still clenched around the box. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

“It _was_ perfect.” Lorenz buries his face in his neck, where it smells spicy and warm with just a hint of sea salt. “I feel as though I should conduct some sort of proper reply instead of just crying all over you.”

“_Yes_ was all the reply I needed, baby,” Claude tells him. “Hey. Can I put a ring on your finger now or what?”

“Oh! Yes, please, I’d almost forgotten,” Lorenz says, even though he hadn’t. His eyes are still puffy but at least they’re clear and (mostly) dry, and when he peers down at the open box in Claude’s hand, he can make the ring out perfectly.

It’s a simple silver band, his preferred metal, slim enough that it won’t overpower the wedding ring when it comes, but sturdy enough to support the princess cut ruby glittering at its center. To either side are tiny flecks of diamond, and then two amethysts, so purple they’re nearly black. Lorenz’s jaw drops.

“I hope it’s not too… much,” Claude says quickly. “I didn’t think you were the type to want a diamond, but all the simpler engagement rings _for men_,” he enunciates the words with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “failed to meet my standards.”

“It’s perfect,” Lorenz says, and he means it. He spent so much of his youth rejecting the facets of himself that his father disapproved of, and even now he’s unearthing new gems every day; this one is only another in a long line of newly-discovered treasures. And it’s more than that, too. He blinks back another wave of tears as Claude slides the ring onto his finger, where it glistens in the dwindling light. Ostentatious, elegant, unapologetic. “I love you,” he says, and takes Claude’s face in his hands to kiss him.

Claude hums and sits up on his knees, hands broad and warm around his waist. Lorenz’s shirt is thin, layers of translucent fabric gathered and tucked into the waistband of his skirt, and Claude’s warmth bleeds through it in an instant. Magnetic, Lorenz arches closer and invites him in. He tastes like the wine he’d had at dinner, lips slightly chapped but still soft and firm like the press of his palm to Lorenz’s spine.

“Baby,” Claude whispers, nuzzling his throat.

“Mm?”

He kisses him, bristly chin scoring gently at his neck as he sucks a throbbing pink mark high up beneath his jaw. “Oh, nothing. Just wanted to say it.”

Lorenz swallows, eyes half-shut. Claude seems determined to mark up his neck, as though he hadn’t staked his claim in glamorous jewelry for the whole world to see; each coarse brush of his beard, each prickle of teeth sends hot waves rippling down his spine, coalescing between his legs like a center of gravity. Lorenz twists urgently where he sits, chasing the ache, and Claude laughs and puts a hand up his skirt.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Good,” Lorenz says hoarsely. Claude’s hand strokes demurely at the outer stretch of his hip, fondling the outer curve of his ass, but it’s not what he wants. Lorenz hikes his skirt up and grabs his hand, redirecting it to the straining shape of his cock in his stockings. “Better.”

“Mmm, I like it when you’re bossy.” Claude nips at the center of his chest, exposed by the deep V of his ruffled collar. “You look so pretty tonight. Couldn’t take my eyes off you at dinner.”

“Or your hands,” Lorenz murmurs. He pushes his hair back from his face and gulps for air, knees pressed wide open around Claude’s hips. “Are you all right down there, darling? It can’t be comfortable on your knees.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m happy where I am.” Claude rubs his knuckles insistently against the head of his cock, smearing precum as it bleeds through thin nylon, and meets his eyes. “Very happy.”

Lorenz shivers, but not with chill. Claude’s hand molds to the shape of him, massaging him through the thin fabric. His other hand drifts here and there and everywhere—spreading his legs wider, stroking his hair, pinching lightly at his nipples through his shirt. Lorenz wriggles and flexes and _aches _in response, like a fiddle played to exquisite results.

“Claude,” he gasps—whines, really, petulant and needy as a child. “Khalid—please—_please_…”

“Mmmm.” Claude slips both hands up his hips, pushing the skirt to his waist. “Love it when you say my name like that.” Then he bows his head and licks the head of his cock through his stockings.

Lorenz shouts—he can’t help it. For a split second he’s embarrassed, and then he remembers where they are: in the middle of the bay with no one around for at least a mile, the velvet-blue dark of twilight drawn heavily around them like a curtain, and he cries out again without compunction. Claude’s tongue rewards him, swirling round and round his cockhead like candy, only pulling off to slurp loudly down the underside of his shaft, sucking his balls into his mouth one at a time. Lorenz falls back on one elbow, on the verge of falling off the lounge chair, and digs his fingers into Claude’s untamed hair.

“Claude,” he gasps, “fuck, darling… you feel…”

Claude takes advantage of the new position, burrowing closer to kiss at his perineum. His beard makes a coarse, lovely sound against the stretched-thin nylon as he mouths indiscriminately between his legs, along his shaft, all over the insides of his thighs. His tights are soaked through where his cock strains beneath the transparent material, and Claude returns to it again and again like a homing signal, sucking and slurping at him in the messiest, noisiest way possible. It melts Lorenz down to his core. Hot and liquid and bubbling, bright yellow gold spilling out of the furnace.

He’s content to ride out the waves of Claude’s attention to the very end, just like this; but Claude has other plans. Clever fingers tug at the waistband of his stockings, peeling them down under his skirt. “Lift your hips for me, darling,” he murmurs, and Lorenz obeys, making just enough room for Claude to pull his tights down around his thighs. It make it harder to spread his legs, and the waistband cuts a little into the soft part of his thighs, but it’s well worth it—Claude ducks his head and takes Lorenz fully into his mouth, and Lorenz cries out, trembling and raw.

“Beautiful,” Claude murmurs, bowed over his lap, hand around the base of his cock. His tongue laps out, teasing the head. “Are you close, baby? Do you want to cum?”

“Please,” Lorenz whimpers. “Ha… Khalid, please…”

Claude smiles and bows his head. His lips fit tight to the head of his cock and slide down, down, tongue firm against the underside, until it hits the back of his throat. A bit of a pause for breath, and he swallows around it—Lorenz jerks in place, mouth open soundlessly as Claude’s nose shoves up against his pubic bone. And he swallows. Again. The clasp of his throat is tight and merciless, his tongue a tease at the base of his cock. Lorenz coils tighter, tighter, and the next flex of Claude’s throat around him pushes him off the edge into orgasm.

Claude takes his time withdrawing, making sure to swallow every last drop. When he finally pulls off, grinning and pleased with himself, Lorenz curls forward in a boneless arc to kiss his salty mouth. “How you holding up?” Claude murmurs against his lips. He sounds a little hoarse, like he’s just starting to lose his voice.

“You are unfairly good at that,” Lorenz breathes. He lets his fingers trail down Claude’s neck, curling his hand teasingly, lightly, at the base of his throat. When Claude swallows he can feel it against the palm of his hand. Claude’s smile slips, and his breath comes short in his chest, even though Lorenz is barely applying any pressure. “You must let me return the favor, hmm?”

“Don’t tease me,” Claude rasps. “Baby, please…”

“All right, I’m sorry.” Lorenz lets him go and kisses his wet, pouting mouth. Tucks the thought away for another time. “Come here, love, let me.”

Claude stands on shaky legs, finding his balance as Lorenz fumbles open his belt buckle and pulls at his zipper. His dress slacks are perfectly tailored, and it takes a bit of doing to get them down his hips, but then Lorenz has them low enough and he’s at the _perfect_ height to lean forward and nibble at Claude’s hipbone.

He doesn’t tease, as promised; but he’s in no rush. Orgasm makes him lazy, languid as he kisses wetly along the waistband of Claude’s boxer briefs, fingers tangled in his rumpled trousers. His nose rubs along the thick line of hair beneath Claude’s navel and smiles at the hitch in Claude’s breath. When Lorenz peers upward through his lashes, Claude is watching him closely, eyes dark, lips parted as he pants for breath.

“Keep going, baby,” he murmurs, cradling Lorenz’s jaw in one warm hand. “Good boy.”

Following the gentle pressure of Claude’s hand, Lorenz nuzzles in close, rubbing his parted lips along the gusset of his boxer briefs. He smells good, musky and warm, with a wet spot already starting to form between his legs. Claude groans and widens his stance a little as Lorenz tongues the shape of his cock. Gently at first, flicking and kissing it through the fabric, then flattening his tongue and massaging, turning his head this way and that to rub his cheek against it. Claude chokes and fists his hand in Lorenz’s hair, holding him steady.

“Want me to—”

“I’ve got it.” With his free hand, Claude shoves his briefs clumsily down his hips, exposing everything to cool night air. Lorenz bites a soft pink mark to the crease of Claude’s hip and buries his mouth between his thighs.

Claude isn’t the quiet type during… bedroom activities… but now he’s positively raucous. He clings to Lorenz’s hair as though his life depends on it and cries out again and again as Lorenz laves his cock with his tongue and between his folds, cursing and begging and giving out praise in equal measure. If Lorenz hadn’t just cum he’d be boiling over, but as it is he’s simply warm and hungry, strung out on praise and pleasure as Claude rides his tongue.

In that tweet, poignant place at the cusp of orgasm, Claude fumbles for Lorenz’s hand and holds it to his waist. His thumb grazes over his knuckles and comes to rest over the ring on his fourth finger. When Lorenz looks up, lips tight around Claude’s dick, his boyfriend—his _fiancé_—is looking back, eyes so tender Lorenz can feel an ache unfold between his ribs, a need, a hunger that goes beyond desire. He curls his fingernails lightly into the skin beneath his hands and sucks harder.

“Goddess,” Claude chokes. “I love you, baby, I love you so much—”

Lorenz leans into him, humming and holding his breath as Claude twitches against his face, thighs shaking like trees in a gale. When the aftershocks seem to bleed away, Lorenz kisses his cockhead gently and withdraws, breathing hard. “All right?”

“Yeah. Whew.” Claude brings the hand with the ring up to his lips and kisses the back of it, petting through Lorenz’s hair. “I’m sorry for pulling, sweetheart, are you okay?”

“Never better.” Lorenz fishes the handkerchief from before out from under his thigh and delicately pats his face dry while Claude reassembles his clothing. Claude’s jacket had slipped from his shoulders during their assignation, and Claude rescues it from the floor to drape it back into place. “Thank you, love.”

Claude smiles and kisses his cheek, lingering there until Lorenz succumbs, turning to kiss his mouth. “Thank _you_,” Claude murmurs against his lips.

“My pleasure.” Lorenz lets him suck on his tongue a little, tasting himself on his lips. “All right, all right. Can we go back now? I’m cold.” He pouts and burrows into the crook of Claude’s neck, purposefully rubbing his cold nose where it’s warmest. Claude yelps but doesn’t push him away; just holds him closer, rubbing his back through the jacket.

“We can do whatever you want, baby. What’s your pleasure? A nice bath in the jacuzzi tub, some wine, a foot massage?”

Lorenz hums as if considering the suggestion. “What I want… what I want is to get into our pajamas and get into bed and maybe go for round two; or perhaps we’ll be too tired, and we can just go to sleep.”

“Those sounds easy enough to accomplish,” Claude teases, stroking through his hair. “Are you sure that’s all?”

“My love,” Lorenz says, sitting up to look into his eyes, “as long as you’re with me, I’m the happiest I could ever be.” He leans closer and kisses him, soft, shallow, uncomplicated. His hands are enfolded in Claude’s, warm together in his lap, and he sort of wants to cry, but only because he’s so incandescently happy. “I love you,” he whispers when they part. “You’ve already given me everything I could possibly want.”

Claude leans their foreheads together, lashes suspiciously damp. “It’s my great honor and privilege to do so. For the rest of our lives.”

Lorenz smiles and shuts his eyes. “I’ll hold you to it, von Riegan.”

.the end.


End file.
